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THE COMPLETE 



POETICAL WRITINGS 



OF 



J G HOLLAND 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

I917 






Copyright by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1879 



Copyright by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1881 



Copyright by 

KATE HOLLAND VAN WAGENEN 

igoo 



'^ SEPT. ii7. 19*0 




CONTENTS. 



» 

PAGE 

Bitter-Sweet i 

Picture 3 

Persons 6 

Prelude 8 

A Song of Doubt 9 

A Song of Faith lo 

First Movement — The Question stated and argued ii 

The Hymn 31 

First Episode — The Question illustrated by Nature 2>7 

Second Movement— The Question illustrated by Experience. 49 
Second Episode — The Question illustrated by Story 87 

Third Movement — The Question illustrated by the Denoue- 
ment ! lOI 

L'Envoy ^ 121 

The Puritan's Guest 123 

Kath rina 137 

A Tribute 139 

Part I. — Childhood and Youth 143 

Complaint 175 



Vi CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Part II. — Love 179 

A Reflection 241 

Part III. — Labor 243 

Despair 293 

Part IV. — Consummation 297 

Jacob Hurd's Child 317 

The Mistress of the Manse 331 

Prelude 333 

Love's Experiments 337 

Selim and Nourmahal 366 

Love's Philosophies ■^'J^ 

Love's Consummation 401 

The Heart of the War <j.37 

The Marble Prophecy 443 

Shorter Poems : 

The Palmer's Vision 461 

To Whittier on his Seventieth Birthday 463 

A Glimpse of Youth 464 

A Golden Wedding-Song 465 

Daniel Gray 467 

Merle the Counsellor „ . ^ 469 

Wanted 472 

Verses read at the Hadley Centennial 473 

A Christmas Carol 476 

The Old Clock of Prague 477 

Albert Durer's Studio 479 

Alone ! 480 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGB 

Song and Silence 481 

Where shall the Baby's Dimple be ? 483 

To a Sleeping Singer 484 

Eureka 485 

Returning Clouds 486 

Gradatim 487 

On the Righi 488 

The Wings 489 

Intimations 494 

Words 496 

Sleeping and Dreaming 498 

Old and Blind 501 

Her Argument 503 

A Legend of Leap Year 507 

False and True 509 

Threnody 510 

To My Dog " Blanco " 511 

Two Homes 513 



BITTER-SWEET. 



PICTURE. 

Winter's wild birthnight! In the fretful East 
The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold, 
And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge, 
Along the valley, up the whitening hill, 
To tease the sighing spirits of the pines. 
And waste in dismal woods their chilly life. 
The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves — 
The restless, rustling leaves — sifts down its sleet, 
Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth. 
And they grow still beneath the rising storm. 
The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack. 
With cringing head and closely gathered feet, 
And waits with dumb endurance for the morn. 
Deep in a gusty cavern of the barn 
The witless calf stands blatant at his chain ; 
While the brute mother, pent within her stall, 
With the wild stress of instinct goes distraught, 
And frets her horns, and bellows through the night. 
The stream runs black ; and the far waterfall 
That sang so sweetly through the summer eves, 
And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath, 
Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss. 
And howls its hoarse responses to the wind. 
The mill is still. The distant factory, 
That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life 
And bridged the river with a hundred bars 



4 BITTER-SWEET. 

Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk 
With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky. 

..... .«•••• 

Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees 
Lash their lithe Hmbs, and, with majestic voice, 
Call to each other through the deepening gloom ; 
And slender trunks that lean on burly boughs 
Shriek with the sharp abrasion ; and the oak. 
Mellowed in fibre by unnumbered frosts, 
Yields to the shoulder of the Titan Blast, 
Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash. 
Sweeps a fierce passage to the smothered rocks, 
And lies a shattered ruin. 

• •••••••••'* 

Other scene : — 
Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill, 
Stands the old farm-house with its clump of barns — 
The old red farm-house — dim and dun to-night. 
Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth 
Flap their bright wings against the window-panes, — 
A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars. 
Or seek the night to leave their track of flame 
Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet 
And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs — 
The spectral poplars, standing at the gate. 

And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong. 

Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze, 

And ancient dress, betray the patriarch. 

Stands at the window, listening to the storm ; 

And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame — 

Moved by the wind — it wraps and glorifies 

His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows 

Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise. 

That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. 



BITTER-SWEET. 

And now it passes, and a sweeter shape 

Stands in its place. O blest maternity ! 

Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, 

Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe ; 

And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps. 

Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, 

O Virgin Mother ! to thyself and thine ! 

Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold 

To hearken to the voice of God without : 

^' Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!*' 

And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares 

Comes to the window in her loosened robe, — 

Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand, — 

And, as the noise of winds and waters swells, 

It shapes the song of triumph to her lips : 

*' The horse and he who rode are overthrown ! *• 

And now a man of noble port and brow, 

And aspect of benignant majesty. 

Assumes the vacant niche, while either side 

Press the fair forms of children, and I hear, 

" Suffer the little ones to come to me ! " 



PERSONS. 

Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel, 

In his ancestral home — a Puritan 

Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, 

And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. 

For three score years and ten his life has run 

Through varied scenes of happiness and woe ; 

But, constant through the wide vicissitude, 

He has confessed the giver of his joys, 

And kissed the hand that took them ; and whene'er 

Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief. 

Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain. 

He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said, 

** Thy will, O God — thy will, not mine, be done t *' 

His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, 

Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven ; 

And her best gift — a maiden sweetly named — 

His daughter Ruth — orders the ancient house, 

And fills her mother's place beside the board, 

And cheers his life with songs and industry. 

But who are these who crowd the house to-night — 

A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who. 

Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours 

With the sweet jargon of a festival ? 

Who are these fathers ? who these mothers ? who 

These pleasant children, rude with health and joy? 

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve ; 



BITTER-SWEET. 

And gathered home, from fresher homes around, 

The old man's children keep the holiday — 

In dear New England, since the fathers slept — 

The sweetest holiday of all the year. 

John comes with Prudence and her little girls, 

And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys — 

Fair, boys and girls with good old Scripture names — 

Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel ; 

And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, 

Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day 

By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe 

And the tall poet David, at whose side 

She went away. And seated in the midst, 

Mary, a foster-daughter of the house. 

Of alien blood — self-aliened many a year — 

Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes 

Bring all the wondering children to her knee, 

Weeps with the strange excess of happiness, 

And sighs with joy. 

What recks the driving storm 
Of such a scene as this ? And what reck these 
Of such a storm ? For every heavy gust 
That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, 
And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands. 
And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat 
Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls, 
They give full bursts of careless merriment. 
Or songs that send it baffled on its way. 



PRELUDE. 

Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this ; 
And while the traveller hugs his fluttering cloak, 
And staggers o'er the weary waste alone, 
Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, 
And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul, 
As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng, 
With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes 
Of the last camel of the caravan. 
And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night. 
Where love burns brightly at the household hearth, 
And from the altar of each peaceful heart 
Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks, 
And every pulse with sympathetic throb 
Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content. 
They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles 
The sleeping lips of infancy ; and fan 
The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks ; 
And toss the locks of children at their play. 

Silence is vocal if we listen well ; 

And Life and Being sing in dullest ears 

From morn to night, from night to morn again, 

With fine articulations ; but when God 

Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires 

With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith 

Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; 

And we look up to where the pleasant sky 

Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song. 



BITTER-SWEET. 



A SONG OF DOUBT. 

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; ' 

God has forgotten the world ! 
The moon is gone, and the stars are dead ; 

God has forgotten the world ! 

Evil has won in the horrid feud 

Of ages with The Throne ; 
Evil stands on the neck of Good, 

And rules the world alone. 

There is no good ; there is no God ; 

And Faith is a heartless cheat 
Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, 

And scatters thorns for the feet. 

What are prayers in the lips of death, 

Filling and chilling with hail? 
What are prayers but wasted breath 

Beaten back by the gale? 

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; 

God has forgotten the world! 
The moon is gone, and the stars are dead ; 

God has forgotten the world! 



lO BITTER-SWEET. 



A SONG OF FAITH. 

Day will return with a fresher boon ; 

God will remember the world ! 
Night will come with a newer moon ; 

God will remember the world ! 

Evil is only the slave of Good ; 

Sorrow the servant of Joy ; 
And the soul is mad that refuses food 

Of the meanest in God's employ. 

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, 
And love is lit by the breath of sighs ; 

The deepest griefs and the wildest fears 
Have holiest ministries. 

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm 
Safely the flower sleeps under the snow ; 

And the farmer's hearth is never warm 
Till the cold wind starts to blow. 

Day will return with a fresher boon ; 

God will remember the world ! 
Night will come with a newer moon ; 

God will remember the world ! 



FIRST MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY — The square room of a New England farm-house. 

PRESENT— Israel, head of the family ; John, Peter, David, 
Patience, Prudence, Grace, Mary, Ruth, and Children. 

THE QUESTION STATED AND ARGUED. 

ISRAEL. 

Ruth, touch the cradle ! Boys, you must be still ! 
The baby cannot sleep in such a noise. 
Nay, Grace, stir not ; she'll soothe him soon enough, 
And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour 
Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year. 

RUTH. 

[Kneeling and rocking the cradle. 

What is the little one thinking about ? 

Very wonderful things, no doubt ! 
Unwritten history ! 
Unfathomed mystery! 

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 

And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, 

As if his head were as full of kinks 

And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears. 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 



12 BITTER-SWEET. 

And he'll never know 
Where the summers go ; — 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so! 

Who can tell what a baby thinks? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the mannikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day? — 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls — 
Barks that were launched on the other side. 
And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother's breast — 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight — 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 

Though she murmur the words 

Of all the birds- 
Words she has learned to murmur well? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse. 
Over his brow, and over his lips, 



BITTER-SWEET. 1 3 

Out to his little finger-tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 

[Rising^, and carefully retreating to her seat. 
See ! He is hushed in sweet repose ! 

DAVID. 

[ Yawning. 
Behold a miracle ! Music transformed 
To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked 
By the dull prattle of a maiden's tongue ! 
A moment more, and we should all have gone 
Down into dreamland with the babe ! Ah, well ! 
There is no end of wonders. 

RUTH. 

None, indeed ! 
When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, 
And cannot keep awake, make the attempt 
To shift the burden of their drowsiness. 
And charge a girl with what they owe to greed. 

DAVID. 

At your old tricks again ! No sleep induced 
By song of yours, or any other bird's. 
Can linger long when you begin to talk. 
Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save 
The trouble of my rising. 

RUTH. 

[Advancing, and kneeling by the side of Grace, 

Sister mine. 
Now give the proof of your obedience 
To your imperious lord ! Strike, if you dare ! 
I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. 



14 BITTER-SWEET. 

Ha ! king ; ha ! poet ; who is master now — 
Baby or husband ? Pr'ythee, tell me that. 
Were I a man, — thank Heaven I am not ! — 
And had a wife who cared not for my will 
More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself! 
Or wear an apron. See! she kisses me! 

DAVID. 

And answers to my will, though well she knows 
I'll spare to her so terrible a task, 
And take the awful burden on myself; 
Which I will do, in future, if she please ! 

RUTH. 

Now have you conquered ! Look ! I am you) slave. 
Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss ; 
For life is sweet, and I alone am left 
To comfort an old man. 

ISRAEL. 

Ruth, that will do! 
Remember I'm a Justice of the Peace, 
And bide no quarrels ; and if you and David 
Persist in strife, I'll place you under bonds 
For good behavior, or condemn you both 
To solitary durance for the night. 

RUTH. 

Father, you fail to understand the case. 
And do me wrong. David has threatened me 
With an assault that proves intent to kill ; 
And here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife, 
Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago 
He entered into bonds to keep the peace 
Toward me and womankind. 



BITTER-SWEET. 15 

DAVID. 

I'm quite asleep, 

ISRAEL. 

We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits. 

RUTH. 

Till he awake again, of course. I trust 
I have sufficient gallantry to grant 
A nap between encounters, to a foe 
With odds against him. 

ISRAEL. 

Peace, my daughter, peace ! 
You've had your full revenge, and we have had 
Enough of laughter since the day began. 
We must not squander all these precious hours 
In jest and merriment ; for when the sun 
Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate. 
Not knowing we shall ever meet again. 
Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven, 
And seem to me the best mementoes left 
Of Eden's hours. 

GRACE. 

Most certainly the best, 
And quite the rarest, but, unluckily. 
The weakest, as we know ; for sin and pain 
And evils multiform, that swarm the earth. 
And poison all our joys and all our hearts, 
Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss. 

DAVID. 
Forfeit through woman. 



1 5 BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. 

Forfeit through her power ;— 
A power not lost, as most men know, I think, 
Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives. 

MARY. 
[Rising, and walking hurriedly to the window, 
'Tis a wild night without. 

RUTH. 

And getting wild 
Within. Now Grace, I — all of us — protest 
Against a scene to-night. Look ! You have driven 
One to the window blushing, and your lord, 
With lowering brow, is making stern essay 
To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance. 
These honest brothers, with their honest wives, 
Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared 
At the next gust to see the windows burst, 
Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof. 
And think of me ! — a simple-hearted maid 
Who learned from Cowper only yesterday 
(Or a schoolmaster, with a handsome face, 
And a strange passion for the text), the fact. 
That wedded bliss alone survives the fall. 
I'm shocked ; I'm frightened ; and I'll never wed 
Unless I — change my mind ! 

ISRAEL. 

And I consent. 

DAVID. 

And the schoolmaster with the handsome face 
Propose. 



BITTER-SWEET. IJ 

RUTH. 
Your pardon, father, for the jest ! 
But I have never patience with the ills 
That make intrusion on my happy hours. 
I know the world is full of evil things, 
And shudder with the consciousness. I know 
That care has iron crowns for many brows ; 
That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon 
Virtue is crucified, and nails and spears 
Draw guiltless blood ; that sorrow sits and drinks 
At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry ; 
That gentle spirits on the rack of pain 
Grow faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns ; 
That Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise 
And armed with might, lie evermore in wait 
Along life's path, giving assault to all — 
Fatal to most ; that Death stalks through the earth, 
Choosing his victims, sparing none at last ; 
That in each shadow of a pleasant tree 
A grief sits sadly sobbing to its leaves ; 
And that beside each fearful soul there walks 
The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertainty, 
Bidding it look before, where none may see, 
And all must go ; but I forget it all — 
I thrust it from me always when I may ; 
Else I should faint with fear, or drown myself 
In pity. God forgive me ! but I've thought 
A thousand times that if I had His power, 
Or He my love, we'd have a different world 
From this we live in. 

ISRAEL. 

Those are sinful thoughts, 
My daughter, and too surely indicate 
A wilful soul, unreconciled to God. 



1 8 BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 
So you have told me often. You have said 
That God is just, and I have looked around 
To seek the proof in human lot, in vain. 
The rain falls kindly on the just man's fields. 
But on the unjust man's more kindly still ; 
And I have never known the winter's blast. 
Or the quick lightning, or the pestilence, 
Make nice discriminations when let slip 
From God's right hand. 

ISRAEL. 

'Tis a great mystery ; 
Yet God is just, and, — blessed be His name ! 
Is loving too. I know that I am weak. 
And that the pathway of His Providence 
Is on the hills where I may never climb. 
Therefore my reason yields her hand to Faith, 
And follows meekly where the angel leads. 
I see the rich man have his portion here. 
And Lazarus, in glorified repose, 
Sleep like a jewel on the breast of Faith 
In Heaven's broad light. I see that whom God loves 
He chastens sorely, but I ask not why. 
I only know that God is just and good : 
All else is mystery. Why evil lives 
Within His universe, I may not know. 
I know it lives, and taints the vital air ; 
And that in ways inscrutable to me — 
Yet compromising not his soundless love 
And boundless power — it lives against His will. 

RUTH. 

I am not satisfied. If evil live 
Against God's will, evil is king of all, 



BITTER-SWEET. 1 9 

And they do well who worship Lucifer. 

I am not satisfied. My reason spurns 

Such prostitution to absurdities. 

I know that you are happy ; but I shrink 

From your blind faith with loathing and with fear. 

And feel that I must win it, if I win, 

With the surrender, not of will alone, 

But of the noblest faculty that God 

Has crowned me with. 

ISRAEL. 

O blind and stubborn child ! 
My light, my joy, my burden and my grief ! 
How would I lead you to the wells of peace, 
And see you dip your fevered palms and drink ! 
Gladly to purchase this would I lay down 
The precious remnant of my life, and sleep. 
Wrapped in the faith you spurn, till the archangel 
Sounds the last trump. But God's good will be done. 
I leave you with Him. 

RUTH. 

Father, talk not thus I 
Oh, do not blame me ! I would do it all, 
If but to bless you with a single joy ; 
But I am helpless. 

ISRAEL. 
God will help you, Ruth. 

RUTH. 

To quench my reason ? Can I ask the boon ? 
My lips would blister with the blasphemy. 
I cannot take your faith ; and that is why 
I would forget that I am in a world 



20 BITTER-SWEET. 

Where evil lives, and why I guard my joys 
With such a jealous care. 

DAVID. 

There, Ruth, sit down ! 
Tis the old question, with the old reply. 
You fly along the path, with bleeding feet. 
Where many feet have flown and bled before ; 
And he who seeks to guide you to the goal, 
Has (let me say it, father,) stopped far short, 
And taken refuge at a wayside inn. 
Whose haunted halls and mazy passages 
Receive no light, save through the riddled roof, 
Pierced thick by pilgrim staves, that Faith may lie 
Upon its back, and only gaze on Heaven. 
I would not banish evil if I could ; 
Nor would I be so deep in love with joy 
As to seek for it in forgetfulness, 
Through faith or fear. 

RUTH. 

Teach me the better way, 
And every expiration from my lips 
Shall be a grateful blessing on your head ; 
And in the coming world I'll seek the side 
Of no more gracious angel than the man 
Who gives me brotherhood by leading me 
Home with himself to heaven. 

ISRAEL. 

My son. 
Be careful of your words ! 'Tis no light thing 
To take the guidance of a straying soul. 



BITTER-SWEET. 21 

DAVID. 
I mark the burden well, and love it, too, 
Because I love the girl and love her lord, 
And seek to vindicate His love to her 
And waken hers for Him. Be this my plea : 
God is almighty — all-benevolent ; 
And naught exists save by His loving will. 
Evil, or what we reckon such, exists, 
And not against His will ; else the Supreme 
Is subject, and we have in place of God 
A phantom nothing, with a phantom name. 
Therefore I care not whether He ordain 
That evil live, or whether He permit ; 
Therefore I ask not why, in either case, 
As if He meant to curse me, but I ask 
What He would have this evil do for me ? 
What is its mission ? what its ministry ? 
What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk? 
How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will, 
Chasten my passions, purify my love. 
And make me in some goodly sense like Him 
Who bore the cross of evil while He lived, 
Who hung and bled upon it when He died, 
And now, in glory, wears the victor's crown? 

ISRAEL. 

If evil, then, have privilege and part 

In the economy of holiness. 

Why came the Christ to save us from its power 

And bring us restoration of the bliss 

Lost in the lapse of Eden ? 

DAVID. 

And would you 
Or Ruth have restoration of that bliss. 



22 BITTER-SWEET. 

And welcome transplantation to the state 
Associate with it? 

RUTH. 

Would I? Would I not! 
Oh, I have dreamed of it a thousand times, 
Sleeping and waking, since the torch of thought 
Flashed into flame at Revelation's touch. 
And filled my spirit with its quenchless fire. 
Most envious dreams of innocence and joy- 
Have haunted me, — dreams that were born in sin. 
Yet swathed in stainless snow. I've dreamed, and dreamed 
Of wondrous trees, crowned with perennial green, 
Whose soft still shadows gleamed with golden lamps 
Of pensile fruitage, or were flushed with life 
Radiant and tuneful when broad flocks of birds 
Swept in and out like sheets of living flame. 
I've dreamed of aisles tufted with velvet grass, 
And bordered with the strange intelligence 
Of myriad loving eyes among the flowers. 
That watched me with a curious, calm delight, 
As rows of wayside cherubim may watch 
A new soul, walking into Paradise. 
I've dreamed of sunsets where the sun supine 
Lay rocking on the ocean like a god. 
And threw his weary arms far up the sky. 
And with vermilion-tinted fingers toyed 
With the long tresses of the evening star. 
I've dreamed of dreams more beautiful than all — 
Dreams that were music, perfume, vision, bliss, — 
Blent and sublimed, till I have stood enwrapped 
In the quick essence of an atmosphere 
That made me tremble to unclose my eyes 
Lest I should look on God. And I have dreamed 
Of sinless men and maids, mated in heaven, 



BITTER-SWEET. 23 

Ere yet their souls had sought for beauteous forms 

To give them human sense and residence, 

Moving through all this realm of choice delights 

For ever and for aye ; with hands and hearts 

Immaculate as light ; without a thought 

Of evil, and without a name for fear. 

Oh, when I wake from happy dreams like these, 

To the old consciousness that I must die, 

To the old presence of a guilty heart. 

To the old fear that haunts me night and day, 

Why should I not deplore the graceless fall 

That makes me what I am, and shuts me out 

From a condition and society 

As much above a sinful maiden's dreams 

As Eden blest surpasses Eden curst? 

DAVID. 

So you would be another Eve, and so — 

Fall with the first temptation, like herself! 

God seeks for virtue ; you for innocence. 

You'll find it in the cradle — nowhere else — 

Save in your dreams, among the grown up babes 

That dwelt in Eden — powerless, pulpy souls 

That showed a dimple for each touch of sin. 

God seeks for virtue, and, that it may live, 

It must resist, and that which it resists 

Must live. Believe me, God has other thought 

Than restoration of our fallen race 

To its primeval innocence and bliss. 

If Jesus Christ — as we are taught — was slain 

From the foundation of the world, it was 

Because our evil lived in essence then — 

Coeval with the great, mysterious fact. 

And He was slain that we might be transformed, — 

Not into Adam's sweet similitude — 



24 BITTER-SWEET. 

But the more glorious image of Himself, 
A resolution of our destiny 
As high transcending Eden's life and lot 
As he surpasses Eden's fallen lord. 

RUTH. 

You're very bold, my brother, very bold. 
Did I not know you for an earnest man. 
When sacred themes move you to utterance, 
I'd chide you for those most irreverent words 
Which make essential to the Christian scheme 
That which the scheme was made to kill, or cure. 

DAVID. 

Yet they do save some very awkward words, 

That limp to make apology for God, 

And, while they justify Him, half confess 

The adverse verdict of appearances. 

I am ashamed that in this Christian age 

The pious throng still hug the fallacy 

That this dear world of ours was not ordained 

The theatre of evil ; for no law 

Declared of God from all eternity 

Can live a moment save by lease of pain. 

Law cannot live, e'en in God's inmost thought, 

Save by the side of evil. What were law 

But a weak jest without its penalty ? 

Never a law was born that did not fly 

Forth from the bosom of Omnipotence 

Matched, wing-and-wing, with evil and with good, 

Avenger and rewarder — both of God. 

RUTH. 

I face your thought and give it audience ; 
But I cannot embrace it till it come 



BITTER-SWEET. 

With some of truth's credentials in its hands— 
The fruits of gracious ministries. 

DAVID. 

Does he 
Who, driven to labor by the threat'ning weeds, 
And forced to give his acres light and air 
And traps for dew and reservoirs for rain, 
Till, in the smoky light of harvest time. 
The ragged husks reveal the golden corn, 
Ask truth's credentials of the weeds ? Does he 
Who prunes the orchard boughs, or tills the field, 
Or fells the forests, or pursues their prey. 
Until the gnarly muscles of his limbs 
And the free blood that thrills in all his veins 
Betray the health that toil alone secures. 
Ask truth's credentials at the hand of toil ? 
Do you ask truth's credentials of the storm, 
Which, while we entertain communion here, 
Makes better music for our huddling hearts 
Than choirs of stars can sing in fairest nights ? 
Yet weeds are evils — evils toil and storm. 
We may suspect the fair, smooth face of good ; 
But evil, that assails us undisguised. 
Bears evermore God's warrant in its hands. 

ISRAEL. 

I fear these silver sophistries of yours. 

If my poor judgment gives them honest weight, 

Far less than thirty will betray your Lord. 

You call that evil which is good, and good 

That which is evil. You apologize 

For that which God must hate, and justify 

The life and perpetuity of that 



26 BITTER-SWEET. 

Which sets itself against His holiness, 

And sends its discords through the universe. 

DAVID. 

I sorrow if I shock you, for I seek 

To comfort and inspire. I see around 

A silent company of doubtful souls ; 

But I may challenge any one of them 

To quote the meanest blessing of its life, 

And prove that evil did not make the gift, 

Or bear it from the giver to its hands. 

The great salvation wrought by Jesus Christ — 

That sank an Adam to reveal a God — 

Had never come, but at the call of sin. 

No risen Lord could eat the feast of love 

Here on the earth, or yonder in the sky. 

Had He not lain within the sepulchre. 

'Tis not the lightly laden heart of man 

That loves the best the hand that blesses all ; 

But that which, groaning with its weight of sin, 

Meets with the mercy that forgiveth much. 

God never fails in an experiment, 

Nor tries experiment upon a race 

But to educe its highest style of life, 

And sublimate its issues. Thus to me 

Evil is not a mystery, but a means 

Selected from the infinite resource 

To make the most of me. 

RUTH. 

Thank God for light ! 
These truths are slowly dawning on my soul, 
And take position in the firmament 

That spans my thought, like stars that know their place. 
Dear Lord ! what visions crowd before my eyes — - 



BITTER-SWEET. 2'J 

Visions drawn forth from memory's mysteries 
By the sweet shining of these holy lights ! 
I see a girl, once lightest in the dance, 
And maddest with the gayety of life, 
Grow pale and pulseless, wasting day by day, 
While death lies idly dreaming in her breast, 
Blighting her breath, and poisoning her blood. 
I see her frantic with a fearful thought 
That haunts and horrifies her shrinking soul, 
And bursts in sighs and sobs and feverish prayers ; 
And now, at last, the awful struggle ends. 
A sweet smile sits upon her angel face, 
And peace, with downy bosom, nestles close 
Where her worn heart throbs faintly ; closer still 
As the death shadows gather ; closer still, 
As, on white wings, the outward-going soul 
Flies to a home it never would have sought. 
Had a great evil failed to point the way. 
I see a youth whom God has crowned with power 
And cursed with poverty. With bravest heart 
He struggles with his lot, through toilsome years, — 
Kept to his task by daily want of bread. 
And kept to virtue by his daily task, — 
Till, gaining manhood in the manly strife, — 
The fire that fills him smitten from a flint — 
The strength that arms him wrested from a fiend- 
He stands, at last, a master of himself, 
And, in that grace, a master of his kind. 

DAVID. 

Familiar visions these^ but ever full 

Of inspiration and significance. 

Now that your eyes are opened and you see, 

Your heart should take swift cognizance, and feel. 

How do these visions move you ? 



2S BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

Like the hand 
Of a strong angel on my shoulder laid, 
Touching the secret of the spirit's wings. 
My heart grows brave. I'm ready now to work- 
To work with God, and suffer with His Christ ; 
Adopt His measures, and abide His means. 
If, in the law that spans the universe 
(The law its maker may not disobey), 
Virtue may only grow from innocence 
Through a great struggle with opposing ill ; 
If I must win my way to perfectness 
In the sad path of suffering, like Him 
The over-flowing river of whose life 
Touches the flood-mark of humanity 
On the white pillars of the heavenly throne. 
Then welcome evil ! Welcome sickness, toil. 
Sorrow and pain, the fear and fact of death ! 

ISRAEL. 

And welcome sin ? 

RUTH. 



Ah, David ! welcome sin ? I 



DAVID. 

The fact of sin — so much ; — it must needs be 

Offences come ; if woe to him by whom, 

Then with good reason ; but the fact of sin 

Unlocked the door to highest destiny, 

That Christ might enter in and lead the way. 

God loves not sin, nor I ; but in the throng 

Of evils that assail us, there are none 

That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling arm 

With such munificent reward of power 



BITTER-SWEET. 29 

As great temptations. We may win by toil 

Endurance ; saintly fortitude by pain ; 

By sickness, patience ; faith and trust by fear ; 

But the great stimulus that spurs to life, 

And crowds to generous development 

Each chastened power and passion of the soul, 

Is the temptation of the soul to sin. 

Resisted, and re-conquered, evermore. 

RUTH. 

I am content ; and now that I have caught 

Bright glimpses of the outlines of your scheme, 

As of a landscape, graded to the sky, 

And seen through trees while passing, I desire 

No vision further till I make survey 

In some good time when I may come alone, 

And drink its beauty and its blessedness. 

I've been forgetful in my earnestness, 

And wearied every one with talk. These boys 

Are restive grown, or nodding in their chairs. 

And older heads are set, as if for sleep. 

I beg their pardon for my theft of time, 

And will offend no more. 

DAVID. 

Ruth, is it right 
To leave a brother in such plight as this — 
Either to imitate your courtesy. 
Or by your act to be adjudged a boor? 

RUTH. 

Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine 
Save of your own construction ! 



30 BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

Let it pass ! 
I see the spell of thoughtfulness is gone, 
Or going swiftly. I will not complain ; 
But ere these lads are fastened to their games, 
And thoughts arise discordant with our theme, 
Let us with gratitude approach the throne 
And worship God. I wish once more to lead 
Your hearts in prayer, and follow with my own 
The leading of your song of thankfulness. 
Then will I lease and leave you for the night 
To such divertisement as suits the time, 
And meets your humor. 

[ They all arise and the old man prays, 

RUTH. 

\After a pause. 

David, let us see 
Whether your memory prove as true as mine. 
Do you recall the promise made by you 
This night one year ago, — to write a hymn 
For this occasion? 

DAVID. 

I recall, and keep. 
Here are the copies, written fairly out. 
Here,— father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest ; 
There's one for each. Now what shall be the tune? 

ISRAEL. 

The old One Hundredth — noblest tune of tunes! 
Old tunes are precious to me as old paths 
In which I wandered when a happy boy. 
In truth, they are the old paths of my soul, 
Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to God. 



BITTER-SWEET. 31 



THE HYMN, 

[In -which all unite to sing. 

For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight, 
For bending wheat and blasted maize, 

For health and sickness, Lord of light. 
And Lord of darkness, hear our praise ! 

We trace to Thee our joys and woes, — 
To Thee of causes still the cause, — 

We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows ; 
We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws. 

We bring no sorrows to Thy throne ; 

We come to Thee with no complaint ; 
In Providence Thy will is done, 

And that is sacred to the saint. 

Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night ; 

We raise to Thee our grateful voice ; 
For what Thou doest. Lord, is right ; 

And thus believing, we rejoice. 



32 BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. : 

A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung ; 
But, in my mind, the man who wrote the hymn 
Had seemed more modest, had he paused awhile, 
Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues 
With words he only has the heart to sing. 

DAVID. 

Oh, Grace ! Dear Grace ! 

RUTH. 
You may well cry for grace, 
If that's the company you have to keep. 

GRACE. 

I thought you convert to his sophistry. 
It makes no difference to him, you know, 
Whether I plague or please. 

RUTH. 

It does to you. 

ISRAEL. 

There, children ! No more bitter words like those ! 

I do not understand them ; they awake 

A sad uneasiness within my heart. 

I found but Christian meaning in the hymn ; 

Aye, I could say amen to every line. 

As to the breathings of my own poor prayer. 

But let us talk no more. I'll to my bed. 

Good night, my children ! Happy thoughts be yours 

Till sleep arrive — then happy dreams till dawn ! 

ALL. 

Father, good night ! 

[LsR. fiL retires. 



BITTER-SWEET. 33 

RUTH. 

There, little boys and girls — 
Off to the kitchen ! Now there's fun for you. 
Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads ; 
And then sit down beside the roaring fire, 
And with wild stories scare yourselves to death. 
We'll all be out there, by-and-by. Meanwhile, 
I'll try the cellar ; and if David, here. 
Will promise good behavior, he shall be 
My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and — 
But no ! The pitcher I will bear myself. 
I'll never trust a pitcher to a man 
Under this house, and — seventy years of age. 

[TAe children rush out of the room with a shout, ityhich wakes 
the baby. 

That noisy little youngster on the floor 

Slept through theology, but wakes with mirth — 

Precocious little creature ! He must go 

Up to his chamber. Come, Grace, take him off, — 

Basket and all. Mary will lend a hand. 

And keep you company until he sleep. 

[Grace and Mary remove the cradle to the chamber, and DAVID 
and Ruth retire to the cellar. 

JOHN. 

\_Rising and yaluning. 

Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw ? 

PRUDENCE. 

Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange. 

I think she treats her husband shamefully. 

I can't imagine what possesses her. 

Thus to toss taunts at him with every word. 

If in his doctrines there be truth enough, 

He'll be a saint. 



34 BITTER-SWEET. 

PATIENCE. 
If he live long enough. 

JOHN. 

Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he, — 
Men who have crazy crotchets in their heads,— 
Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see ? 
He isn't settled. He has wandered ofif 
From the old landmarks, and has lost himself. 
I may judge wrongly ; but if truth were told 
There'd be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye. 
Grace is a right good girl, or was, before 
She married David. 

PATIENCE. 

Everybody says 
He makes provision for his family, 
Like a good husband. 

PETER. 

We can hardly tell. 
When men get loose in their theology. 
The screws are started up in everything. 
Of course, I don't apologize for Grace. 
I think she might have done more prudently 
Than introduce her troubles here to-night, 
But, after all, we do not know the cause 
That stirs her fretfulness. 

Well, let it go! 
What does the evening's talk amount to ? Who 
Is wiser for the wisdom of the hour ? 
The good old paths are good enough for me. 
The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we. 
By following meekly where they trod, may reach 
The home they found. There will be mysteries : 



BITTER-SWEET. 35 

Let those who like, bother their heads with them. 

If Ruth and David seek to fathom all, 

I wish them patience in their bootless quest. 

For one, I'm glad the misty talk is done. 

And we, alone. 



And I. 



PATIENCE. 

JOHN. 
I, too. 

PRUDENCE. 

And L 



FIRST EPISODE. 

LOCALITY— The Cellar Stairs and the Cellar. 

PRESENT— David and Ruth. 

THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY NATURE. 

RUTH. 

Look where you step, or you'll stumble! 

Care for your coat, or you'll crock it! 
Down with your crown, man ! Be humble ! 

Put your head into your pocket, 

Else something or other will knock it. 
Don't hit that jar of cucumbers 

Standing on the broad stair ! 
They have not waked from their slumbers 

Since they stood there. 

DAVID. 

Yet they have lived in a constant jar 1 
What remarkable sleepers they are I 

RUTH. 

Turn to the left — shun the wall — 
One step more — that is all ! 
Now we are safe on the ground 
I will show you around. 



%S BITTER-SWEET. 

Sixteen barrels of cider 

Ripening all in a row! 

Open the vent-channels wider! 

See the froth, drifted like snow, 

Blown by the tempest below ! 

Those delectable juices 

Flowed through the sinuous sluices 

Of sweet springs under the orchard ; 

Climbed into fountains that chained them ; 

Dripped into cups that retained them, 

And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them. 

Then they were gathered and tortured 

By passage from hopper to vat, 

And fell — every apple crushed flat. 

Ah! how the bees gathered round them. 

And how delicious they found them! 

Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, 

Was platted, and smoothly turned over, 

Weaving a neatly-ribbed basket ; 

And, as they built up the casket, 

In went the pulp by the scoop-full, 

Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full, — 

Filling the half of a puncheon 

While the men swallowed their luncheon. 

Pure grew the stream with the stress 

Of the lever and screw, 
Till the last drops from the press 

Were as bright as the dew. 
There were these juices spilled; 
There were these barrels filled ; 
Sixteen barrels of cider — 
Ripening all in a row ! 
Open the vent-channels wider! 
See the froth, drifted like snow, 
■blown by the tempest below I 



BITTER-SWEET. . 39 

DAVID. 
Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, 
Till crushed by Pain's resistless power ; 
And yield their juices rich and bland 
To none but Sorrow's heavy hand. 
The purest streams of human love 

Flow naturally never, 
But gush by pressure from above, 

With God's hand on the lever. 
The first are turbidest and meanest ; 
The last are sweetest and serenest. 

RUTH. 

Sermon quite short for the text ! 
What shall we hit upon next ? 
Lift up the lid of that cask ; 

See if the brine be abundant ; 
Easy for me were the task 

To make it redundant 
With tears for my beautiful Zephyr^ 

Pet of the pasture and stall — 
Whitest and comeliest heifer, 

Gentlest of all ! 

Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her ! 

But they insulted my prayer 

For her careless and innocent life. 

And the creature was brought to the knife 
With gratitude in her eye ; 
For they patted her back, and chafed her head. 
And coaxed her with softest words, as they led 

Her up to the ring to die. 
Do you blame me for crying 
When my Zephyr was dying ? 
I shut my room and my ears, 
And opened my heart and my tears, 



40 BITTER-SWEET. 

And wept for the half of a day ; 

And I could not go 

To the rooms below 
Till the butcher went away. 

DAVID. 

Life evermore is fed by death, 

In earth and sea and sky ; 
And, that a rose may breathe its breathy 
Something must die. 

Earth is a sepulchre of flowers. 

Whose vitalizing mould 
Through boundless transmutation towers, 
In green and gold. 

The oak tree, struggling with the blast, 

Devours its father tree, 
And sheds its leaves and drops its mast^ 
That more may be. 

The falcon preys upon the finch. 

The finch upon the fly 
And nought will loose the hunger-pinch 
But death's wild cry. 

The milk-haired heifer's life must pass 

That it may fill your own. 
As passed the sweet life of the grass 
She fed upon. 

The power enslaved by yonder cask 

Shall many burdens bear ; 
Shall nerve the toiler at his task. 
The soul at prayef. 



BITTER-SWEET. 4i 



From lowly woe springs lordly joy ; 

From humbler good diviner ; 
The greater life must aye destroy 
And drink the minor. 

From hand to hand life's cup is passed 

Up Being's piled gradation, 
Till men to angels yield at last 
The rich collation. 



RUTH. 

Well, we are done with the brute ; 

Now let us look at the fruit, — 

Every barrel, I'm told, 

From grafts half a dozen years old. 

That is a barrel of russets ; 

But we can hardly discuss its 

Spheres of frost and flint. 
Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring, 
And the old tree blossoming, 
Their bronze takes a yellower tint. 
And the pulp grows mellower in't ; 
But oh ! when they're sick with the savors 

Of sweets that they dream of. 
Sure, all the toothsomest flavors 

They hold the cream of! 
You will be begging in May, 
In your irresistible way. 
For a peck of the apples in gray. 

Those are the pearmains, I think, — 

Bland and insipid as eggs ; 
They were too lazy to drink 

The light to its dregs. 



42 BITTER-SWEET. 

And left them upon the rind — 

A dehcate film of blue — 
Leave them alone ; — I can find 

Better apples for you. 

Those are the Rhode Island greenings- 
Excellent apples for pies ; 

There are no mystical meanings 
In fruit of that color and size. 

They are too coarse and too juiceful ; 

They are too large and too useful. 

There are the Baldwins and Flyers, 
Wrapped in their beautiful fires ! 
Color forks up from their stems 

As if painted by Flora, 
Or as out from the pole stream the flames 

Of the Northern Aurora. 

Here shall our quest have a close ; 
Fill up your basket with those ; 
Bite through their vesture of flame, 

And then you will gather 
All that is meant by the name, 

" Seek-no-farther ! " 

DAVID. 

The native orchard's fairest trees. 

Wild springing on the hill, 
Bear no such precious fruits as these. 
And never will ; 

Till axe and saw and pruning knife 

Cut from them every bough, 
And they receive a gentler life 

Than crowns them now. 



BITTER-SWEET. 43 



And Nature's children, evermore, 

Though grown to stately stature. 
Must bear the fruit their fathers bore — 
The fruit of nature ; 

Till every thrifty vice is made 

The shoulder for a cion. 
Cut from the bending trees that shade 
The hills of Zion. 

Sorrow must crop each passion- shoot, 

And pain each lust infernal, 
Or human life can bear no fruit 
To life eternal. 

For angels wait on Providence ; 

And mark the sundered places. 
To graft with gentlest instruments 
The heavenly graces. 

RUTH. 

Well, you're a curious creature ! 
You should have been a preacher. 

But look at that bin of potatoes 
Grown in all singular shapes — 
Red and in clusters, like grapes, 

Or more like tomatoes. 
Those are Merinoes, I guess ; 

Very prolific and cheap ; 
They make an excellent mess 

For a cow, or a sheep, 
And are good for the table, they say, 
When the winter has passed away. 

Those are my beautiful Carters ; 
Every one doomed to be martyrs 



44 BITTER;SWEET. 

To the eccentric desire 
Of Christian people to skin them, — 

Brought to the trial of fire 
For the good that is in them ! 
Ivory tubers — divide one ! 

Ivory all the way through ! 
Never a hollow inside one ; 

Never a core, black or blue f 

Ah, you should taste them when roasted! 

(Chestnuts are not half so good ;) 
And you would find that I've boasted 

Less than I should. 
They make the meal for Sunday noon ; 

And, if ever you eat one, let me beg 

You to manage it just as you do an egg. 
Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon. 
And wrap your napkin round the shell : 
Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell 
Of a white-lipped morning-glory ? 
Well, that's the rest of the story ! 
But it's very singular, surely, 
They should produce so poorly. 
Father knows that I want them, 
So he continues to plant them ; 
But, if I try to argue the question, 

He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will ; 
And puts me down with the stale suggestion— 

*' Small potatoes, and few in a hill." 

DAVID. 

Thus is it over all the earth ! 

That which we call the fairest. 
And prize for its surpassing worth. 
Is always rarest. 



BITTER-SWEET. 4^ 



Iron is heaped in mountain piles, 

And gluts the laggard forges ; 
But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles . 
And lonely gorges. 

The snowy marble flecks the land 

With heaped and rounded ledges, 
But diamonds hide within the sand 
Their starry edges. 

The finny armies clog the twine 

That sweeps the lazy river, 
But pearls come singly from the brine, 
With the pale divei*. 

God gives no value unto men 

Unmatched by meed of labor ; 
And Cost of Worth has ever been 
The closest neighbor. 

Wide is the gate and broad the way 

That open to perdition, 
And countless multitudes are they 
Who seek admission. 

But strait the gate, the path unkind, 

That lead to life immortal, 
And few the careful feet that find 
The hidden portal. 

All common good has common price 5 

Exceeding good, exceeding ; 
Christ bought the keys of Paradise 
By cruel bleeding ; 



46 BITTER-SWEET. 

And every soul that wins a place 

Upon its hills of pleasure, 
Must give its all, and beg for grace 
To fill the measure. 

Were every hill a precious mine, 
And golden all the mountains ; 
Were all the rivers fed with wine 

By tireless fountains ; 

Life would be ravished of its zest, 

And shorn of its ambition, 
And sink into the dreamless rest 
Of inanition. 

Up the broad stairs that Value rears 
Stand motives beck'ning earthward 
To summon men to nobler spheres, 

And lead them worthward. 

RUTH. 

I'm afraid to show you anything more ; 

For parsnips and art are so very long. 
That the passage back to the cellar- door 

Would be through a mile of song. 
But Truth owns me for an honest teller ; 

And if the honest truth be told, 
I am indebted to you and the cellar 

For a lesson and a cold. 
And one or the other cheats my sight ; 

(O silly girl ! for shame !) 
Barrels are hooped with rings of light, 

And stopped with tongues of flame. 
Apples have conquered original sin, 

Manna is pickled in brine, 



BITTER-SWEET. 47 

Philosophy fills the potato-bin, 

And cider will soon be wine. 
So crown the basket with mellow fruit, 

And brim the pitcher with pearls ; 
And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit 

The old-time boys and girls. 

[ They ascend the stairs. 



SECOND MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY—^ Chamber. 
PRESENT— Grace, Mary, and the Baby. 

THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY EXPERIENCE, 

GRACE. 

Hither, Sleep ! A mother wants thee ! 

Come with velvet arms ! 
Fold the baby that she grants thee 

To thy own soft charms ! 

Bear him into Dreamland lightly ! 

Give him sight of flowers ! 
Do not bring him back till brightly 

Break the morning hours ! 

Close his eyes with gentle fingers! 

Cross his hands of snow ! 
Tell the angels where he lingers 

They must whisper low I 

I will guard thy spell unbroken 

If thou hear my call ; 
Come, then, Sleep! I wait the token 

Of thy downy thrall. 

3 



50 BITTER-SWEET. 

Now I see his sweet lips moving ; 

He is in thy keep ; 
Other milk the babe is proving 

At the breast of sleep ! 

MARY. 

Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence ! 

Sleep like a bud ; for soon the sun of life 

With ardors quick and passionate shall rise, 

And, with hot kisses, part the fragrant lips — 

The folded petals of thy soul ! Alas ! 

What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then! 

What pride and pain, ambition and despair, 

Desire, satiety, and all that fill 

With misery life's fretful enterprise. 

Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, 

Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth. 

To be apportioned to the elements ! 

I marvel, baby, whether it were ill 

That he who planted thee should pluck thee now. 

And save thee from the blight that comes on all. 

I marvel whether it would not be well 

That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, 

On the full throbbing of an angel's heart ! 

GRACE. 

Oh, speak not thus ! The thought is terrible. 
He is my all ; and yet, it sickens me 
To think that he will grow to be a man. 
If he were not a boy ! 

MARY. 

Were not a boy? 
That wakens other thoughts. Thank God for that! 
To be a man, if aught, is privilege 



BITTER-SWEET. $1 

Precious and peerless. While I bide content 

The modest lot of woman, all my soul 

Gives truest manhood humblest reverence. 

It is a great and god-like thing to do ! 

'Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man. 

Man fells the forests, ploughs and tills the fields, 

And heaps the granaries that feed the world. 

At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings, 

And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies, 

Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime. 

Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand, 

And roar through ages with the din of trade. 

Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his will, 

Joining the angel of the Apocalypse 

Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous circumstance, 

And with one foot upon the conquered sea. 

And one upon the subject land, proclaims 

That space shall be no more. The lightnings veil 

Their fiery forms to wait upon his thought, 

And give it wing, as unseen spirits pause 

To bear to God the burden of his prayer. 

God crowns him with the gift of eloquence, 

And puts a harp into his tuneful hands, 

And makes him both his prophet and his priest. 

'Twas in his form the great Immanuel 

Revealed himself ; the Apostolic Twelve, 

Like those who since have ministered the Word, 

Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man. 

GRACE. 

And fortunate to have an advocate 

Across whose memory convenient clouds 

Come floating at convenient intervals. 

The harvest fields that man has honored most 

Are those where human life is reaped like grain. 



52 BITTER-SWEET. 

There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail. 

Nor sprang a great invention into birth, 

By other motive than man's love of gold. 

It is for wrong that he is eloquent ; 

For lust that he indites his sweetest songs. 

Christ was betrayed by treason of a man, 

And scourged and hung upon a tree by men ; 

And the sad women who were at his cross, 

And sought him early at the sepulchre. 

And since that day, in gentle multitudes 

Have loved and followed him, have been man's slaves,^ 

The victims of his power and his desire. 

MARY. 

And you, a wedded wife — well wedded, too, 
Can say all this, and say it bitterly ! 

GRACE. 
Perhaps because a wife ; perhaps because — 

MARY. 

flush, Grace ! No more ! I beg you, say no more. 

Nay ! I will leave you at another word ; 

For I could listen to a blasphemy, 

Falling from bestial lips, with lighter chill 

Than to the mad complainings of a soul 

Which God has favored as he favors few. 

I dare not listen when a woman's voice, I 

Which blessings strive to smother, flings them off 

In mad contempt. I dare not hear the words 

Whose utterance all the gentle loves dissuade 

By kisses which are reasons, while a throng 

Of friendships, comforts, and sweet charities — 

The almoners of the All-Bountiful — 

With folded wings stand sadly looking on. 



BITTER-SWEET. 53 

Believe me, Grace, the pioneer of judgment — 

Ordained, commissioned — is Ingratitude ; 

For where it moves, good withers ; blessings die ; 

Till a clean path is left for Providence, 

Who never sows a good the second time 

Till the torn bosom of the graceless soil 

Is ready for the seed. 

GRACE. 

Oh, could you know 
The anguish of my heart, you would not chide t 
If I repine, it is because my lot 
Is not the blessed thing it seems to you. 

Mary 1 Could you know ! Could you but know ! 

MARY. 

Then why not tell me all? You know me, love, 
And know that secrets make their graves with me, 
So, tell me all ; for I do promise you 
Such sympathy as God through suffering 
Has given me power to grant to such as you. 

1 bought it dearly, and its largess waits 
The opening of your heart. 

GRACE. 

I am ashamed, — 
In truth, I am ashamed — to tell you all. 
You will not laugh at me ? 

MARY. 

I laugh at you? 

GRACE. 

Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak ; 
Distrustful of itself and all the world. 



54 BITTER-SWEET. 

Ah, well ! To what strange issues leads our life ! 

It seems but yesterday that you were brought 

To this old house, an orphaned little girl, 

Whose large shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrinking ways 

Filled all our hearts with wonder, as we stood 

And stared at you, until your heart o'erfiUed 

With the oppressive strangeness, and you wept. 

Yes, I remember how I pitied you — 

I who had never wept, nor even sighed. 

Save on the bosom of my gentle mother ; 

For my quick heart caught all your history 

When with a hurried step you sought the sun. 

And pressed your eyes against the window-pane 

That God's sweet light might dry them. Well I knew, 

Though all untaught, that you were motherless. 

And I remember how I followed you, — 

Embraced and kissed you — kissed your tears away — 

Tears that came faster, till they bathed the lips 

That would have sealed their flooded fountain-heads ; 

And then we wound our arms around each other, 

And passed out — out under the pleasant sky, 

And stood among the lilies at the door. 

I gave no formal comfort ; you, no thanks ; 
For tears had been your language, kisses mine, 
And we were friends. We talked about our dolls. 
And all the pretty playthings we possessed. 
Then we revealed, with childish vanity. 
Our little stores of knowledge. I was full 
Of a sweet marvel when you pointed out 
The yellow thighs of bees that, half asleep, 
Plundered the secrets of the lily-bells, 
And called the golden pigment honey-comb. 
And your black eyes were opened very wide 
When I related how, one sunny day, 



BITTER-SWEET. S5 

I found a well, half-covered, down the lane, 
That WIS so deep and clear that I could see 
Straight through the world, into another sky ! 

MARY. 

Do you remember how the Guinea hens 

Set up a scream upon the garden wall, 

That frightened me to running, when you screamed 

With laughter quite as loud ? 

GRACE. 

Aye, very well ; 
But better still the scene that followed all. 
Oh, that has lingered in my memory 
Like that divinest dream of Raphael — 
The Dresden virgin prisoned in a print — 
That watched with me in sickness through long weeks, 
And from its frame upon the chamber-wall 
Breathed constant benedictions, till I learned 
To love the presence like a Roman saint. 

My mother called us in ; and at her knee. 

Embracing still, we stood, and felt her smile 

Shine on our up-turned faces like the light 

Of the soft summer moon. And then she stooped ; 

And when she kissed us, I could see the tears 

Brimming her eyes. O sweet experiment ! 

To try if love of Jesus and of me 

Could make our kisses equal to her lips ! 

Then straight my prescient heart set up a song, 

And fluttered in my bosom like a bird. 

I knew a blessing was about to fall, 

As robins know the coming of the rain, 

And bruit the joyous secret, ere its steps 

Are heard upon the mountain tops. I knew 



56 BITTER-SWEET. 

You were to be my sister ; and my heart 

Was almost bursting with its love and pride. 

I could not wait to hear the kindly words 

Our mother spoke -her counsels and commands— 

For you were mine — my sister ! So I tore 

Your clinging hand from hers with rude constraint, 

And took you to my chamber, where I played 

With you, in selfish sense of property, 

The whole bright afternoon. 

And here again, 
Within this same old chamber we are met. 
We told our secrets to each other then ; 
Thus let us tell them now ; and you shall be 
To my grief-burdened soul what you have said, 
So many times, that I have been to yours. 

MARY. 

Alas ! I never meant to tell my tale 
To other ear than God's ; but you have claims 
Upon my confidence, — claims just rehearsed, 
And other claims which you have never known. 

GRACE. 

And other claims which I have never known ! 

You speak in riddles, love. I only know 

You grew to womanhood, were beautiful. 

Were loved and wooed, were married and were blest !- 

That after passage of mysterious years 

We heard sad stories of your misery. 

And rumors of desertion ; but your pen 

Revealed no secrets of your altered life. 

Enough for me that you are here to-night, 

And have an ear for sorrow, and a heart 

Which disappointment has inhabited. 

My history you know. A twelvemonth since 



BITTER-SWEET. $7 

This fearful, festive night, and in this house, 

I gave my hand to one whom I beUeved 

To be the noblest man God ever made ; — 

A man who seemed to my infatuate heart 

Heaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soul 

The choicest harmonies of life should flow, 

Growing articulate upon his lips 

In numbers to enchant a willing world. 

I cannot tell you of the pride that filled 

My bosom, as I marked his manly form. 

And read his soul through his effulgent eyes, 

And heard the wondrous music of his voice. 

That swept the chords of feeling in all hearts 

With such divine persuasion as might grow 

Under the transit of an angel's hand. 

And, then, to think that I, a farmer's child, 

Should be the woman culled from all the world 

To be that man's companion, — to abide 

The nearest soul to such a soul — to sit 

Close by the fountain of his peerless life — 

The welling centre of his loving thoughts — 

And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best, — 

To lay my head upon his breast, and feel 

That of all precious burdens it had borne 

That was most precious — Oh ! my heart was wild 

With the delirium of happiness — 

But, Mary, you are weeping! 

MARY. 

Mark it not. 
Your words wake memories which you may guess, 
And thoughts which you may some time know — not now. 

GRACE. 

Well, we were married, as I said ; and I 

n* 



58 BITTER-SWEET. 

Was not unthankful utterly, I think ; 

Though, if the awful question had come then, 

And stood before me with a brow severe 

And steady finger, bidding me decide 

Which of the two I loved the more, the God 

Who gave my husband to me, or his gift, 

I know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes. 

We passed a honeymoon whose atmosphere, 

Flooded with inspiration, and embraced 

By a wide sky set full of starry thoughts, 

And constellated visions of delight. 

Still wraps me in my dreams — itself a dream. 

The full moon waned at last, and in my sky, 

With horn inverted, gave its sign of tears ; 

And then, when wasted to a skeleton,- 

It sank into a heaving sea of tears 

That caught its tumult from my sighing soul. 

My husband, who had spent whole months with me, 

Till he was wedded to my every thought. 

Left me through dreary hours, — nay, days, — alone ! 

He pleaded business — business day and night ; 

Leaving me with a formal kiss at morn, 

Anji meeting me with strange reserve at eve ; 

And I could mark the sea of tenderness 

Upon whose beach I had sat down for life, 

Hoping to feel for ever, as at first. 

The love -breeze from its billows, and to clasp 

With open arms the silver surf that ran 

To wreck itself upon my bosom, ebb. 

Day after day receding, till the sand 

Grew dry and hot, and the old hulls appeared 

Of hopes sent out upon that faithless main 

Since woman loved, and he she loved was false. 

Night after night I sat the evening out, 



BITTER-SWEET. 59 

And heard the clock tick on the mantel-tree 
Till it grew irksome to me, and I grudged 
The careless pleasures of the kitchen maids 
Whose distant laughter shocked the lapsing hours. 

MARY. 

But did your husband never tell the cause 
Of this neglect ? 

GRACE. 

Never an honest word. 
He told me he was writing ; and, at home. 
Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look. 
I was offended, and upbraided him. 
I knew he had a secret, and that from 
The centre of its closely coiling folds 
A cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue, 
Swayed with a double story — one for me. 
And one for whom I knew not — whom he knew. 
His words, which wandered first as carelessly 
As the free footsteps of a boy, were trained 
To the stern paces of a sentinel 
Guarding a prison door, and never tripped 
With a suggestion. 

I despaired at last 
Of winning what I sought by wiles and prayers ; 
So, through long nights of sleeplessness I lay, 
And held my ear beside his silent lips — 
An eager cup — ready to catch the gush 
Of the pent waters, if a dream-swung rod 
Should smite his bosom. It was all in vain. 
And thus months passed away, and all the while 
Another heart was beating under mine. 
May Heaven forgive me ! but I grieved the charms 
The unborn thing was stealing, for I felt 



6o BITTER-SWEET. 

That in my insufficiency of power 
I had no charm to lose. 

MARY. 

And did he not, 
In this most tender trial of your heart, 
Turn in relenting? — give you sympathy? 

GRACE. 

No — yes ! Perhaps he pitied me, and that 

Indeed was very pitiful ; for what 

Has love to do with pity ? When a wife 

Has sunk so hopelessly in the regard 

Of him she loves that he can pity her, — 

Has sunk so low that she may only share 

The tribute which a mute humanity 

Bestows on those whom Providence has struck 

With helpless poverty, or foul disease ; 

She may be pitied, both by earth and heaven, 

Because he pities her. A pitied child 

That begs its bread from door to door is blest ; 

A wife who begs for love and confidence. 

And gets but alms from pity, is accurst. 

Well, time passed on ; and rumor came at last 
To tell the story of my husband's shame 
And my dishonor. He was seen at night, 
Walking in lonely streets with one whose eyes 
Were blacker than the night, — whose little hand 
Was clinging to his arm. Both were absorbed 
In the half-whispered converse of the time ; 
And both, as if accustomed to the path, 
Turned down an alley, climbed a flight of steps, 
Entered a door, and closed it after them — 
A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me. 



BITTER-SWEET. 6l 

I had my secret ; and I kept it, too. 
I knew his haunt, and it was watched for me, 
Till doubt and prayers for doubt, — pale flowers 
I nourished with my tears — were crushed 
By the relentless hand of Certainty. 

Oh, Mary ! Mary ! Those were fearful days. 
My wrongs and all their shameful history 
Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf, 
Though he had only shown their title-page : 
That page was his ; the rest were in my heart. 
I knew that he had left my home for her's ; 
I knew his nightly labor was to feed 
Other than me : — that he was loaded down 
With cares that were the price of sinful love. 

MARY. 

Grace, in your heart do you believe all this ? 
I fear — I know — you do your husband wrong. 
He is not competent for treachery. 
He is too good, too noble, to desert 
The woman whom he only loves too well. 
You love him not ! 

GRACE. 

I love him not ? Alas ! 
I am more angry with myself than him 
That, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows, 
And spite my hate, I love the traitor still. 
I love him not ? Why am I here to-night — 
Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are strewn 
Through every room for him to trample on — 
But in my pride to show him to you all, 
With the dear child that publishes a love 
That blessed me once,, e'en if it curse me now ? 



62 BITTER-SWEET. 

You know I do my husband wrong ! You think, 

Because he can talk smoothly, and befool 

A simple ear with pious sophistries, 

He must be e'en the saintly man he seems. 

We heard him talk to-night ; it was done well. 

I saw the triumph of his argument. 

And I was proud, though full of spite the while. 

His stuff was meant for me ; and, with intent, 

For selfish purpose, or in irony. 

He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet. 

My heart rebelled, and now you know the cause 

Of my harsh words to him. 

MARY. 

'Tis very sad! 
Oh very — very sad ! Pray you go on ! 
Who is this woman ? 

GRACE. 

I have never learned. 
I only know she stole my husband's heart, 
And made me very wretched. I suppose 
That at the time my little babe was born. 
She went away ; for David was at home 
For many days. That pain was bliss to me — 
I need no argument to teach me that — 
Which caused neglect of her, and gave offence. 
Since then, he has not where to go from me ; 
And, loving well his child, he stays at home. 

So he lugs round his secret, and I mine. 

I call him, husband ; and he calls me, wife ; 

And I, who once was like an April day. 

That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled 

My heart against my fate, and now am calm. 



BITTER-SWEET. 63 

I will live on ; and though these simple folk 
Who call me sister understand me not, 
It matters little. There is one who does ; 
And he shall have no liberty of love 
By any word of mine. 'Tis woman's lot, 
And man's most weak and wicked wantonness. 
Mine is like other husbands, I suppose ; 
No worse — no better. 



MARY. 
ik you 
Kji buuii cib 1 .'^ 1 uciiiiiuL give it yuu, 
For you have shut me from the privi' 



Ask you sympathy 
Of such as I ? I cannot give it you, 

ve shut me from the privilege. 



GRACE. 

I asked it once ; you gave me unbelief. 

I had no choice but to grow hard again. 

'Tis my misfortune and my misery 

That every hand whose friendly ministry 

My poor heart craves, is held — withheld — by him ; 

And I must freeze that I may stand alone. 

MARY. 

And so, because one man is false, or you 
Imagine him to be, all men are false ; 
Do I speak rightly ? 

GRACE. 

Have it your own way. 
Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, 
Are prone to falsehood. I will not gainsay 
The common virtue of the common herd. 
I prize it as I do the goodish men 
Who hold the goodish stuff, and know it not. 
These serve to fill an easy-going world. 
And that to clothe it with complacency. 



64 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

I had not thought misanthropy Uke this 
Could lodge with you ; so I must e'en confess 
A tale which never passed my lips before, 
Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine, 
in this, I'll prove my friendship, if I lose 
The friendship which demands the sacrifice. 

I have come back, a worse than widowed wife ; 

Yet I went out with dream as bright as yours, — 

Nay, brighter, — for the birds were singing then. 

And apple-blossoms drifted on the ground 

Where snow-flakes fell and flew when you were wed. 

The skies were soft ; the roses budded full ; 

The meads and swelling uplands fresh and green ; — 

The very atmosphere was full of love. 

It was no girlish carelessness of heart 

That kept my eyes from tears, as I went forth 

From this dear shelter of the orphan child. 

I felt that God was smiling on my lot. 

And made the airs his angels to convey 

To every sense and sensibility 

The message of his favor. Every sound 

Was music to me ; every sight was peace ; 

And breathing was the drinking of perfume. 

I said, content, and full of gratitude, 

"This is as God would have it ; and he speaks 

These pleasant languages to tell me so." 

But I had no such honeymoon as yours. 
A few brief days of happiness, and then 
The dream was over. I had married one 
Who was the sport of vagrant impulses. 
We had not been a fortnight wed, when he 
Came home to me with brandy in his brain — 



BITTER-SWEET. 65 

A maudlin fool — for love like mine to hide 

As if he were an unclean beast. O Grace ! 

1 cannot paint the horrors of that night. 

My heart, till then serene, and safely kept 

In Trust's strong citadel, quaked all night long, 

As tower and bastion fell before the rush 

Of fierce convictions ; and the tumbling walls 

Boomed with dull throbs of ruin through my brain. 

And there were palaces that leaned on this — 

Castles of air, in long and glittering lines, 

Which melted into air, and pierced the blue 

That marks the star-strewn vault of heaven ; — all fell, 

With a faint crash like that which scares the soul 

When dissolution shivers through a dream 

Smitten by nightmare, — fell and faded all 

To utter nothingness ; and when the morn 

Flamed up the East, and with its crimson wings 

Brushed out the paling stars that all the night 

In silent, slow procession, one by one. 

Had gazed upon me through the open sash, 

And passed along, it found me desolate. 

The stupid dreamer at my side awoke, 

And with such helpless anguish as they feel 

Who know that they are weak as well as vile. 

I saw, through all his forward promises, 

Excuses, prayers, and pledges that were oaths 

(What he, poor boaster, thought I could not see) 

That he was shorn of will, and that his heart 

Was as defenceless as a little child's ; — 

That underneath his fair good fellowship 

He was debauched, and dead in love with sin ; — 

That love of me had made him what I loved, — 

That I could only hold him till the wave 

Of some o'erwhelming impulse should sweep iris 



66 BITTER-SWEET. 

To lift his feet and bear him from my arms. 
I felt that morn, when he went trembling forth, 
With bloodshot eyes and forehead hot with woe, 
That thenceforth strife would be 'twixt Hell and me- 
The odds against me — for my husband's soul. 

GRACE. 

Poor dove ! Poor Mary ! Have you suffered thus ? 
You had not even pride to keep you up. 
Were he my husband, I had left him then — 
The ingrate ! 

MARY. 

Not if you had loved as I ; 
Yet what you know is but a bitter drop 
Of the full cup of gall that I have drained. 
Had he left me unstained, — had I rebelled 
Against the influence by which he sought 
To bring me to a compromise with him,— 
To make my shrinking soul meet his half way, — 
It had been better ; but he had an art, 
When appetite or passion moved in him. 
That clothed his sins with fair apologies, 
And smoothed the wrinkles of a haggard guilt 
With the good-natured hand of charity. 
He knew he was a fool, he said, and said again ; 
But human nature would be what it was. 
And life had never zest enough to bear 
Too much dilution ; those who work like slaves 
Must have their days of frolic and of fun. 
He doubted whether God would punish sin ; 
God was, in fact, too good to punish sin ; 
For sin itself was a compounded thing. 
With weakness for its prime ingredient. 
And thus he fooled a heart that loved him well ; 



BITTER-SWEET. 6/ 

And it went toward his heart by slow degrees, 
Till Virtue seemed a frigid anchorite, 
And Vice, a jolly fellow — bad enough, 
But not so bad as Christian people think. 

This was the cunning work of months — nay, years ; 

And, meantime, Edward sank from bad to worse. 

But he had conquered. Wine was on his board. 

Without my protest — with a glass for me ! 

His boon companions came and went, and made 

My home their rendezvous with my consent. 

The doughty oath that shocked my ears at first, 

The doubtful jest that meant, or might not mean, 

That which should set a woman's brow aflame, 

Became at last (oh, shame of womanhood !) 

A thing to frown at with a covert smile ; 

A thing to smile at with a decent frown ; 

A thing to steal a grace from, as I feigned 

The innocence of deaf unconsciousness. 

And I became a jester. I could jest 

In a wild way on sacred things and themes ; 

And I have thought that in his better moods 

My husband shrank with horror from the work 

Which he had wrought in me. 

I do not know 
If, during all these downward-tending years, 
Edward kept well his faith with me. I know 
He used to tell me, in his boastful way. 
How he had broke the hearts of pretty maids. 
And that if he were single — well-a-day ! 
The time was past for thinking upon that ! 
And I had heart to toss the badinage 
Back in his teeth, with pay of kindred coin ; 
And tell him lies to stir his bestial mirth ; 



68 BITTER-SWEET. 

And make my boast of conquests ; and pretend 
That the true heart I had bestowed on him 
Had flown, and left him but an empty hand. 

I had some days of pain and penitence. 
I saw where all must end. I saw, too well, 
Edward was growing idle, — that his form 
Was gathering disgustful corpulence, — 
That he was going down, and dragging me 
To shame and ruin, beggary and death. 
But judgment came, and overshadowed us ; 
And one quick bolt shot from the awful cloud, 
Severed the tie that bound two worthless lives. 
What God hath joined together, God may part,- 
Grace, have you thought of that ? 

GRACE. 

You scare me, Mary! 
Nay ! Do not turn on me with such a look ! 
Its dread suggestion gives my heart a pang 
That stops its painful beating. 

MARY. 

Let it pass ! 
One morn we woke with the first flush of light. 
Our windows jarring with the cannonade 
That ushered in the nation's festal day. 
The village streets were full of men and boys, 
And resonant with rattling mimicry 
Of the black-throated monsters on the hill,— » 
A crashing, crepitating war of fire, — 
And as we listened to the fitful feud. 
Dull detonations came from far away, 
Pulsing along the fretted atmosphere, 



BITTER-SWEET. 6g 

To tell that in the ruder villages 

The day had noisy greeting, as in ours. 

I know not why it was, but then, and there, 

I felt a sinking sadness, passing tears — 

A dark foreboding I could not dissolve, 

Nor drive away. But when, next morn, I woke 

In the sweet stillness of the Sabbath day, 

And found myself alone, I knew that hearts 

Which once have been God's temple, and in which 

Something divine still lingers, feel the throb 

Along the lines that bind them to The Throne 

When judgment issues ; and, though dumb and blind, 

Shudder and faint with prophecies of ill. 

How — by what cause — calamity should come, 

I could not guess; that it was imminent, 

Seemed just as certain as the morning's dawn. 

We were to have a gala day, indeed. 

There were to be processions and parades, 

A great oration in a mammoth tent. 

With dinner following, and toast and speech 

By all the wordy magnates of the town ; 

A grand balloon ascension afterwards ; 

And, in the evening, fireworks on the hill. 

I knew that drink would flow from morn till night 

In a wild maelstrom, circling slow around 

The village rim, in bright careering waves. 

But growing turbulent, and changed to ink 

Around the village centre, till, at last. 

The whirling, gurgling vortex would engulf 

A maddened multitude in drunkenness. 

And this was in my thought (the while my heart 

Was palpitating with its nameless fear). 

As, wrapped in vaguest dreams, and purposeless, 



yo BITTER-SWEET. 

I laced my shoe and gazed upon the sky. 
Then strange determination stirred in me ; 
And, turning sharply on my chair, I said, 
" Edward, where'er you go to-day, I go I " 

If I had smitten him upon the face, 

It had not tingled with a hotter flame. 

He turned upon me with a look of hate — 

A something worse than anger — and, with oaths. 

Raved like a fiend, and cursed me for a fool. 

But I was firm ; he could not shake my will ; 

So, through the morning, until afternoon. 

He stayed at home, and drank and drank again, 

Watching the clock, and pacing up and down, 

Until, at length, he came and sat by me. 

To try his hackneyed tricks of blandishment. 

He had not meant, he said, to give offence ; 

But women in a crowd were out of place. 

He wished to see the aeronauts embark. 

And meet some friends ; but there would be a throng 

Of boys and drunken boors around the car. 

And I should not enjoy it ; more than this. 

The rise would be a finer spectacle 

At home than on the ground. I gave assent. 

And he went out. Of course, I followed him ; 

For I had learned to read him, and I knew 

There was some precious scheme of sin on foot. 

The crowd was heavy, and his form was lost 
Quick as it touched the mass ; but I pressed on, 
Wild shouts and laughter punishing my ears. 
Till I could see the bloated, breathing cone, 
As if it were some monster of the sky 
Caught by a net and fastened to the earth — 
A butt for jeers to all the merry mob. 



BITTER-SWEET. /I 



But I was distant still ; and if a man 
In mad impatience tore a passage from 
The crowd that pressed upon him, or a girl, 
Frightened or fainting, was allowed escape, 
I slid like water to the vacant space. 
And thus, by deftly won advances, gained 
The stand I coveted. 



We waited long ; 
And as the curious gazers stood and talked 
About the diverse currents of the air, 
And wondered where the daring voyagers 
Would find a landing-place, a young man said, 
In words intended for a spicy jest, 
A man and woman living in the town 
Had taken passage overland for hell ! 



Then at a distance rose a scattering shout 

That fixed the vision of the multitude. 

Standing on eager tiptoe, and afar 

I saw the crowd give way, and make a path 

For the pale heroes of the crazy hour. 

Hats were tossed wildly as they struggled on, 

And the gap closed behind them, till, at length. 

They stood within the ring. Oh, damning sight ! 

The woman was a painted courtezan ; 

The man, my husband ! I was dumb as death. 

My teeth were clenched together like a vice. 

And every heavy heart-throb was a chill. 

But there I stood, and saw the shame go on. 

They took their seats, the signal gun was fired ; 

The cords were loosed, and then the billowy bulk 

Shot toward the zenith ! 



72 BITTER-SWEET. 

Never bent the sky 
With a more cloudless depth of blue than then ; 
And, as they rose, I saw his faithless arm 
Slide o'er her shoulder, and her dizzy head 
Drop on his breast. Then I became insane. 
I felt that I was struggling with a dream — 
A horrid phantasm I could not shake off. 
The hollow sky was swinging like a bell ; 
The silken monster swinging like its tongue ; 
And as it reeled from side to side, the roar 
Of voices round me rang, and rang again, 
Tolling the dreadful knell of my despair. 



At the last moment I could trace his form, 

Edward leaned over from his giddy seat. 

And tossed out something on the air. I saw 

The little missive fluttering slowly down. 

And stretched my hand to catch it, for I knew. 

Or thought I knew, that it would come to me. 

And it did come to me — as if it slid 

Upon the cord that bound my heart to his — 

Strained to its utmost tension — snapped at last. 

I marked it as it fell. It was a rose. 

I grasped it madly as it struck my hand. 

And buried all its thorns within my palm ; 

But the fierce pain released my prisoned voice. 

And, with a shriek, I staggered, swooned, and fell. 



That night was brushed from life. A passing friend 
Directed those who bore me rudely off; 
And I was carried to my home, and laid 
Entranced upon my bed. The Sabbath morn 
That followed all this din and devilry 



BITTER-SWEET. 'J'^ 

Swung noiseless wide its doors of yellow light, 

And in the hallowed stillness I awoke. 

My heart was still ; I could not stir a hand. 

I thought that I was dying, or was dead, — 

That I had slipped through smooth unconsciousness 

Into the everlasting silences. 

I could not speak ; but winning strength, at last, 

I turned my eyes to seek for Edward's face. 

And saw an unpressed pillow. He was gone ! 

I was oppressed with awful sense of loss ; 

And, as a mother, by a turbid sea 

That has engulfed her fairest child, sits down 

And moans over the waters, and looks out 

With curious despair upon the waves. 

Until she marks a lock of floating hair, 

And by its threads of gold draws slowly in, 

And clasps and presses to her frenzied breast 

The form it has no power to warm again. 

So I, beside the sea of memory. 

Lay feebly moaning, yearning for a clew 

By which to reach my own extinguished life. 

It came. A burning pain shot through my palm, 

And thorns awoke what thorns had put to sleep. 

It all came back to me — the roar, the rush. 

The up-turned faces, the insane hurras. 

The skyward shooting spectacle, the shame — 

And then I swooned again. 

GRACE. 

But was he killed ? 
Did his foolhardy venture end in wreck ? 
Or did it end in something worse than wreck? 
Surely, he came again ! 
4 



74 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

To me, no more. 
He had his reasons, and I knew them soon ; 
But, first, the fire enkindled in my brain 
Burnt through long weeks of fever — burnt my frame- 
Until it lay upon the sheet as white 
As the pale ashes of a wasted coal. 
Then, when strength came to me, and I could sit. 
Braced by the double pillows that were mine, 
A kind friend took my hand, and told me all. 

The day that Edward left me was the last 

He could have been my husband ; for the next 

Disclosed his infamy and my disgrace. 

He was a thief, and had been one, for years, — 

Defrauding those whose gold he held in trust ; 

And he was ruined — ruined utterly. 

The very bed I sat on was not his, 

Nor mine, except by tender charity. 

A guilty secret menacing behind, 

A guilty passion burning in his heart, 

And, by his side, a guilty paramour. 

He seized upon this reckless whim, and fled 

From those he knew would curse him ere he slept. 

My cup was filled with wormwood ; and it grew 

Bitter and still more bitter, day by day, 

Changing from shame and hate, to stern revenge. 

Life had no more for me. My home was lost ; 

My heart unfitted to return to this ; 

And, reckless of the future, I went forth — 

A woman stricken, maddened, desperate.' 

I sought the city with as sure a scent 

As vultures track a carcass through the air. 

I knew him there, delivered up to sin, 



BITTER-SWEET. 75 

And longed to taunt him with his infamy, — 
To haunt his haunts ; to sting his perjured soul 
With sharp reproaches ; and to scare his eyes 
With visions of his work upon my face. 

But God had other means than my revenge 
To humble him, and other thought for me. 
I saw him only once ; we did not meet ; 
There was a street between us ; yet it seemed 
Wide as the unbridged gulf that yawns between 
The rich man and the beggar. 

'Twas at dawn. 
I had arisen from the sleepless bed 
Which my scant means had purchased, and gone forth 
To taste the air, and cool my burning brow. 
I wandered on, not knowing where I went, 
Nor caring whither. There were few astir ; 
The market wagons lumbered slowly in. 
Piled high with carcasses of slaughtered lambs, 
Baskets of unhusked corn, and mint, and all 
The fresh, green things that grow in country fields. 
I read the signs — the long and curious names — 
And wondered who invented them, and if 
Their owners knew how very strange they were. 
A corps of weary firemen met me once. 
Late home from service, with their gaudy car, 
And loud with careless curses. Then I stopped, 
And chatted with a frowsy-headed girl 
Who knelt among her draggled skirts, and scrubbed 
The heel-worn door-steps of a faded house. 
Then, as I left her, and resumed my walk, 
I turned my eyes across the street, and saw 
A sight which stopped my feet, my breath, my heart. 
It was my husband. Oh, how sadly changed ! 



j6 BITTER-SWEET. 

His bloodshot eyes stared from an anxious face ; 
His hat was battered, and his clothes were torn 
And splashed with mud. His poisoned frame 
Had shrunk away, until his garments hung 
In folds about him. Then I knew it all : 
His life had been a measureless debauch 
Since his most shameless flight ; and in his eye, 
Eager and strained, and peering down the stairs 
That tumbled to the ante-rooms of hell, 
I saw the thirst which only death can quench. 
He did not raise his eyes ; I did not speak ; 
There was no work for me to do on him ; 
And when, at last, he tottered down the steps 
Of a dark gin-shop, I was satisfied, 
And half relentingly retraced my way. 

I cannot tell the story of the months 

That followed this. I toiled and toiled for bread, 

And for the shelter of one stingy room. 

Temptation, which the hand of poverty 

Bears oft seductively to woman's lips. 

To me came not. I hated men like beasts ; 

Their flattering words, and wicked, wanton leers, 

Sickened me with ineffable disgust. 

At length there came a change. One warm Spring even, 

As I sat idly dreaming of the past, 

And questioning the future, my quick ear 

Caught sound of feet upon the creaking stairs, 

And a light rap delivered at my door. 

I said, " Come in ! " with half defiant voice, 

Although I longed to see a human face. 

And needed labor for my idle hands. 

But when the door was opened, and there stood 

A man before me, with an eye as pure 



BITTER-SWEET. '^'f 

And brow as fair as any little child's, 

Matched with a form and carriage which combined 

All manly beauty, dignity, and grace, 

A quick blush overwhelmed my pallid cheeks, 

And, ere 1 knew, and by no act of will, 

I rose and gave him gentle courtesy. 

He took a seat, and spoke with pleasant voice 
Of many pleasant things — the pleasant sky. 
The stars, the opening foliage in the park ; 
And then he came to business. He would have 
A piece of exquisite embroidery ; 
My hand was cunning, if report were true ; 
Would it oblige him ? 

It would do, I said, 
That which it could to satisfy his wish ; 
And when he took the delicate pattern out, 
And spread the dainty fabric on his knees, 
I knew he had a wife. 

He went away 
With kind " Good night," and said that, with my leave, 
He'd call and watch the progress of the work. 
I marked his careful steps adown the stairs. 
And then, his brisk, firm tread upon the stones 
Till in the dull roar of the distant streets 
It mingled and was lost. Then I was lost, — 
Lost in a wild, wide-ranging reverie — 
From which I roused not till the midnight hush 
Was broken by the toll from twenty towers. 

This is a man, I said ; a man in truth ; 
My room has known the presence of a man, 
And it has gathered dignity from him. 



78 BITTER-SWEET. 

I felt my being flooded with new life. 
My heart was warm ; my pcor, sore-footed thoughts 
Sprang up full fledged through ether ; and I felt 
Like the sick woman who had touched the hem 
Of Jesus' garment, when through all her veins 
Leaped the swift tides of youth. 

He had a wife ! 
Why, to a wrecked, forsaken thing like me 
Did that thought bring a pang ? I did not know ; 
But, truth to tell, it gave me stinging pain. 
If he was noble, he was naught to me ; 
If he was great, it only made me less ; 
If he loved truly, I was not enriched. 
So, in my selfishness, I almost cursed 
The unknown woman, thought for whom had brought 
Her loving husband to me. What was I 
To him ? Naught but a poor unfortunate, 
Picking her bread up at a needle's point. 
He'll come and criticise my handiwork, 
I said, and when it is at last complete, 
He'll draw his purse and give me so much gold ; 
And then, forgetting me for ever, go 
And gather fragrant kisses for the boon, 
From lips that do not know their privilege. 
I could be nothing but the medium 

Through which his love should pass to reach its shrine ; 
The glass through which the sun's electric beams 
Kindles the rose's heart, and still remains 
Chill and serene itself — without reward ! 
Then came to me the thought of my great wrong, 
A man had spoiled my heart, degraded me ; 
A wanton woman had defrauded me ; 
I would get reparation how I could ! 
He must be something to me — I to him! 



BITTER-SWEET. 79 

All men, however good, are weak, I thought ; 

And if I can arrest no beam of love 

By right of nature or by leave of law, 

I'll stain the glass ! And the last words I said, 

As I lay down upon my bed to dream, 

Were those four words of sin : " I'll stain the glass I " 

GRACE. 

Mary, I cannot hear you more ; your tale. 
So bitter and so passing pitiful 
I have forgotten tears, and feel my eyes 
Burn dry and hot with looking at your face, 
Now gathers blackness, and grows horrible. 

MARY. 

Nay, you must hear me out ; I cannot pause ; 
And have no worse to say than I have said — 
Thank God, and him who put away my toils ! 

He came, and came again ; and every charm 
God had bestowed on me, or art could frame, 
I used with keenest ingenuities 
To fascinate the sensuous element 
O'er which, mistrusted, and but half asleep, 
His conscience and propriety stood guard. 
I told with tears the story of my woe ; 
He listened to me with a thoughtful face, 
And sadly sighed ; and thus I won his ruth. 
And then I told him how my life was lost ; — 
How earth had nothing more for me but pain ; 
Not e'en a friend. At this, he took my hand, 
And said, out of his nobleness of heart. 
That I should have an honest friend in him ; 
On which I bowed my head upon his arm. 
And wept again, as if my heart would break 



80 BITTER-SWEET. 

With the full pressure of its gratitude. 

He put me gently off, and read my face : 

I stood before him hopeless, helpless, his! 

His swift soul gathered what I meant it should. 

He sighed and trembled ; then he crossed the floor, 

And gazed with eye abstracted on the sky ; 

Then came and looked at me ; then turned, 

As if affrighted at his springing thoughts, 

And, with abruptest movement, left the room. 

This time he took with him the broidered thing 

That I had wrought for him ; and when I oped 

The little purse that he rewarded me, 

I found full golden payment five times told. 

Given from pity ? thought I, — that alone ? 

Is manly pity so munificent ? 

Pity has mixtures that it knows not of! 

It was a cruel triumph, and I speak 

Of it with utter penitence and shame. 

I knew that he would come again ; I knew 

His feet would bring him, though his soul rebelled. 

I knew that cheated heart of his would toy 

With the seductive chains that gave it thrall, 

And strive to reconcile its perjury 

With its own conscience of the better way, 

By fabrication of apologies 

It knew were false. 

And he did come again ; 
Confessing a strange interest in me, 
And doing for me many kindly deeds. 
I knew the nature of the sympathy 
That drew him to my side, better than he ; 
Though I could see that solemn change in him 



BITTER-SWEET. 8 1 

Which every face will wear, when Heaven and Hell 

Are struggling in the heart for mastery. 

He was unhappy ; every sudden sound 

Startled his apprehensions ; from his heart 

Rose heavy suspirations, charged with prayer, 

Desire, and deprecation, and remorse ; — 

Sighs like volcanic breathings — sighs that scorched 

His parching lips and spread his face with ashes, — 

Sighs born in such convulsions of the soul 

That his strong frame quaked like Vesuvius, 

Burdened with restless lava. 

Day by day 
I marked this dalliance with sinful thought, 
Without a throb of pity in my heart. 
I took his gifts, which brought immunity 
From toil and care, as if they were my right. 
Day after day I saw my power increase. 
Until that noble spirit was a slave — 
A craven, helpless, self-suspected slave. 

But this was not to last — thank God and him ! 
One night he came, and there had been a change. 
My hand was kindly taken, but not held 
In the way wonted. He was self-possessed ; 
The powers of darkness and his Christian heart 
Had had a struggle — his the victory ; 
And on his manly brow the benison 
Of a majestic peace had been imposed. 
Was I to lose the guerdon of my guile? 
He was my all, and by the only means 
Left to a helpless, reckless thing, like me : 
My heart made pledge the strife should be renewed. 
I took no notice of his altered mood, 
But strove, by all the tiicks of tenderness, 
4* 



82 BITTER-SWEET. 

To fan to life again the drooping flame 
Within his heart ; — with what success, at last, 
The sequel shall reveal. 

Strange fire came down 
Responsive to my call, and the quick flash 
That shrivelled resolution, vanquished will, 
And with a blood-red flame consumed the crown 
Of peace upon his brow, taught him how weak — 
How miserably imbecile — he had become, 
Tampering with temptation. Such a groan. 
Wrung from such agony, as then he breathed, 
Pray Heaven my ears may never hear again ! 
He smote his forehead with his rigid palm. 
And sank, as if the blow had stunned him, to his knees, 
And there, with face pressed hard upon his hands, 
Gave utterance to frenzied sobs and prayers — 
The wild articulations of despair. 
I was confounded. He — a man — thought I, 
Blind with remorse by simple look at sin ! 
And I — a woman — in the devil's hands. 
Luring him Hellward with no blush of shame ! 
The thought came swift from God, and pierced my heart,, 
Like a barbed arrow ; and it quivered there 
Through whiles of tumult — quivered — and was fast ! 

Thus, while I stood and marked his kneeUng form, 

Still shocked by deep convulsions, such a light 

Illumed my soul, and flooded all the room. 

That, without thought, I said, ''The Lord is here!" 

Then straight my spirit heard these wondrous words : 

" Tempted in all points like ourselves, was He — 

Tempted, but sinless." Oh, what majesty 

Of meaning did those precious words convey ! 

'Twas through temptation, thought I, that the Lord— 



BITTER-SWEET. 83 

The mediator between God and men — 

Reached down the hand of sympathetic love 

To meet the grasp of lost Humanity ; 

And this man, kneeling, has the Lord in him, 

And comes to mediate 'twixt Christ and me, 

''Tempted but sinless;" — one hand grasping mine, 

The other Christ's. 

Why had he suffered thus ? 
Why had his heart been led far down to mine, 
To beat in sinful sympathy with mine, 
But that my heart should cling to his and him, 
And follow his withdrawal to the heights 
From whence he had descended ? Then I learned 
Why Christ was tempted ; and, as broad and full. 
The heart of the great secret was revealed. 
And I perceived God's dealings with my soul, 
I knelt beside the tortured man and wept. 
And cried to Heaven for mercy. As I prayed, 
My soul cast off its shameful enterprise ; 
And when it fell, I saw my godless self — 
My own degraded, tainted, guilty heart. 
Which it had hidden from me. Oh, the pang — 
The poignant throe of uttermost despair — 
That followed the discovery ! I felt 
That I was lost beyond the grace of God ; 
And my heart turned with instinct sure and swift 
To the strong struggler, praying at my side. 
And begged his succor and his prayers. I felt 
That he must lead me up to where the hand 
Of Jesus could lay hold on me, or I was doomed. 

Temptation's spell was past. He took my hand, 
And, as he prayed that we might be forgiven, 
And pledged our future loyalty to God 



84 BITTER-SWEET. 

And his white throne within our hearts, I gave 
Responses to each promise ; then I crowned 
His closing utterance with such Amen 
As weak hearts, conscious of their weakness, give 
When, bowed to dust, and chnging to the robes 
Of outraged mercy, they devote themselves 
Once and forever to the pitying Christ. 

Then we arose and stood upon our feet. 

He gave me no reproaches, but with voice 

Attempered to his altered mood, confessed 

His own blameworthiness, and pressed the prayer 

That I would pardon him, as he believed 

That God had pardoned ; but my heart was fuU,- 

So full of its sore sense of wrong to him, 

Of the deep guilt of shameful purposes 

And treachery to worthy womanhood, 

That I could not repeat his Christian words, 

Asking forbearance on my own behalf. 

He sat before me for a golden hour ; 

And gave me counsel and encouragement, 

Till, like broad gates, the possibilities 

Of a serener and a higher life 

Were thrown wide open to my eager feet, 

And I resolved that I would enter in. 

And, with God's gracious help, go no more out. 

For weeks he watched me with stern carefulness. 
Nourished my resolution, prayed with me. 
And led me, step by step, to higher ground. 
Till, gathering impulse in the upward walk. 
And strength in purer pair, and keener sight 
In the sweet light that dawned upon my soul, 
I grasped the arm of Jesus, and was safe. 



BITTER-SWEET. 8$ 

And now, when I look back upon my life, 

It seem s as if that noble man were sent 

To give me rescue from the pit of death. 

But from his distant height he could not reach 

And act upon my soul ; so Heaven allowed 

Temptation's ladder 'twixt his soul and mine 

That they might meet and yield his mission thrift. 

I doubt not in my grateful soul to-night 

That had he stayed within his higher world, 

And tried to call me to him, I had spurned 

Alike his mission and his ministry. 

That he was tempted, was at once my sin 

And my salvation. That he sinned in thought, 

And fiercely wrestled with temptation, won 

For his own spirit that humility 

Which God had sought to clothe him with in vain, 

By other measures, and that strength which springs 

From a great conflict and a victory. 

We talked of this ; and on our bended knees 

We blessed the Great Dispenser for the means 

By which we both had learned our sinful selves, 

And found the way to a diviner life. 

So, with my chastened heart and life, I come 

Back to my home, to live — perhaps to die. 

God's love has been in all this discipline ; 

God's love has used those awful sins of mine 

To make me good and happy. I can mourn 

Over my husband ; I can pray for him, 

Nay, I forgive him ; for I know the power 

With which temptation comes to stronger men. 

I know the power with which it came to me. 



And now, dear Grace, my story is complete. 
You have received it with dumb wonderment. 



86 BITTER-SWEET. 

And it has been too long. Tell me what thought 
Stirs in your face, and waits for utterance. 

GRACE. 

That I have suffered little — trusted less ; 

That I have failed in charity, and been 

Unjust to all men — specially to one. 

I did not think there lived a man on earth 

Who had such virtue as this friend of yours, — 

Weak, and yet strong. 'Twere but humanity 

To give him pity in his awful strife ; 

To stint the meed of reverence and praise 

For his triumphant conquest of himself. 

Were infamy. I love and honor him ; 

And if I knew my husband were as strong, 

I could fall down before, and worship him ; 

I could fall down, and wet his feet with tears — 

Tears penitential for the grievous wrong 

That I have done him. But alas ! alas ! 

The thought comes back again. O God in Heaven, 

Help me with patience to await the hour 

When the great purpose of thy discipline 

Shall be revealed, and, like this chastened one, 

I can behold it, and be satisfied ! 

MARY. 

Hark! They are calling us below, I think. 
We must go down. We'll talk of this again 
When we have leisure. Kiss the little one. 
And thank his weary brain it sleeps so well. 

\They descend. 



% 



SECOND EPISODE. 

LOCALITY— 7:%^ Kitchen. 
PRESENT — Joseph, Samuel, Rebekah, and other Children. 

THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY STORY. 

JOSEPH. 

Have we not had "Button-Button" enough, 
And " Forfeits," and all such silly stuff? 

SAMUEL. 

Well, we were playing " Blind-Man's-Buff" 
Until you fell, and rose in a huff, 
And declared the game was too rude and rough. 
Poor boy ! What a pity he isn't tough ! 

ALL. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! what a pretty boy ! 
Papa's delight, and mamma's joy ! 
Wouldn't he like to go to bed, 
And have a cabbage-leaf on his head ? 

JOSEPH. 

Laugh, if you like to ! Laugh till you're gray ; 
But I guess you'd laugh another way 



88 BITTER-SWEET. 

If you'd hit your toe, and fallen like me, 

And cut a bloody gash in your knee, 

And bumped your nose and bruised your shin, 

Tumbling over the rolling-pin 

That rolled to the floor in the awful din 

That followed the fall of the row of tin 

That stood upon the dresser. 

SAMUEL. 

Guess again — dear little guesser ! 
You wouldn't catch this boy lopping his wing, 
Or whining over anything. 
So stir your stumps, 
Forget your bumps, 
Get out of your dumps. 
And up and at it again ; 
For the clock is striking ten. 
And Ruth will come pretty soon and say : 
^' Go to your beds, 
You sleepy heads ! " 
So — quick ! What shall we play ? 

REBEKAH. 

I wouldn't play any more, 
For Joseph is tired and sore 
With his fall upon the floor. 



ALL. 

Then he shall tell a story. 

JOSEPH. 

About old Mother Morey ? 



BITTER-SWEET. 89 

ALL. 



No ! Tell us another. 



About my brother ? 



JOSEPH. 



REBEKAH. 



Now, Joseph, you shall be good. 

And do as you'd be done by ; 

We didn't mean to be rude 

When you fell and began to cry ; 

We wanted to make you forget your pain ; 

But it frets you, and we'll not laugh again. 

JOSEPH. 

Well, if you'll all sit still. 

And not be frisking about. 

Nor utter a whisper till 

You've heard my story out, 

I'll tell you a tale as weird 

As ever you heard in your lives. 

Of a man with a long blue beard. 

And the way he treated his wives. 



ALL. 



Oh, that will be nice ! 
We'll be still as mice. 



JOSEPH. 



{Relates the old story of Blue Beard, and David and Ruth 
enter from the cellar unperceived. 

Centuries since there flourished a man, 
(A cruel old Tartar as rich as the Khan,) 



90 BITTER-SWEET. 

Whose castle was built on a splendid plan, 

With gardens and groves and plantations ; 
But his shaggy beard was as blue as the sky, 
And he lived alone, for his neighbors were shy, 
And had heard hard stories, by the by, 
About his domestic relations. 



Just on the opposite side of the plain 

A widow abode, with her daughters twain, 

And one of them — neither cross nor vain — 

Was a beautiful little treasure ; 
So he sent them an invitation to tea, 
And having a natural wish to see 
His wonderful castle and gardens, all three 

Said they'd do themselves the pleasure. 



As soon as there happened a pleasant day. 
They dressed themselves in a sumptuous way, 
And rode to the castle as proud and gay 

As silks and jewels could make them ; 
And they were received in the finest style, 
And saw everything that was worth their while, 
In the halls of Blue Beard's grand old pile. 

Where he was so kind as to take them. 



The ladies were all enchanted quite ; 
For they found old Blue Beard so polite 
That they did not suffer at all from fright, 

And frequently called thereafter ; 
Then he offered to marry the younger one. 
And as she was willing the thing was done, 
And celebrated by all the ton 

With feasting and with laughter. 



BITTER-SWEET. 9 1 

As kind a husband as ever was seen 

Was Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween ; 

And she was as proud as any queen 

And as happy as she could be, too ; 
But her husband called her to him one day, 
And said, *' My dear, I am going away ; 
It will not be long that I shall stay ; 

There is business for me to see to. 

" The keys of my castle I leave with you ; 

But if you value my love, be true. 

And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue ! 

Farewell, Fatima ! Remember ! " 
Fatima promised him ; then she ran 
To visit the rooms with her sister Ann ; 
But when she had finished the tour, she began 

To think about the Blue Chamber. 

Well, the woman was curiously inclined. 
So she left her sister and prudence behind, 
(With a little excuse) and started to find 

The mystery forbidden. 
She paused at the door ; — all was still as night ! 
She opened it, then through the dim, blue light 
There blistered her vision the horrible sight 

That was in that chamber hidden. 

The room was gloomy and damp and wide, 
And the floor was red with the bloody tide 
From headless women, laid side by side, 

The wives of her lord and master ! 
Frightened and fainting, she dropped the key, 
But seized it and lifted it quickly ; then she 
Hurried as swiftly as she could flee 

From the scene of the disaster. 



92 BITTER-SWEET. 

She tried to forget the terrible dead, 

But shrieked when she saw that the key was red, 

And sickened and shook with an awful dread 

When she heard Blue Beard was coming. 
He did not appear to notice her pain ; 
But he took his keys, and seeing the stain, 
He stopped in the middle of the refrain 

That he had been quietly humming. 

" Mighty well, madam ! " said he, " mighty well ! 

What does this little blood-stain tell ? 

You've broken your promise ; prepare to dwell 

With the wives I've had before you ! 
You've broken your promise, and you shall die.'* 
Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh, 
Fell on her knees and began to cry, 

" Have mercy, I implore you ! " 

" No ! " shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword ; 
"You shall die this very minute," he roared. 
" Grant me time to prepare to meet my Lord," 

The terrified woman entreated. 
" Only ten minutes," he roared again ; 
And holding his watch by its great gold chain, 
He marked on the dial the fatal ten, 

And retired till they were completed. 

" Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower ! 
Look for release from this murderer's power ! 
Our brothers should be here this very hour ; — 

Speak ! Does there come assistance ! " 
'* No : I see nothing but sheep on the hill.** 
''Look again, sister!" " I'm looking still. 
But naught can I see, whether good or ill. 

Save a flurry of dust in the distance.'* 



BITTER-SWEET. 93 

" Time's up! " shouted Blue Beard, out from his room ; 
''This moment shall witness your terrible doom, 
And give you a dwelling within the room 

Whose secrets you have invaded." 
"Comes there no help for my terrible need?" 
" There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed." 
"Ohf tell them to ride very fast indeed, 

Or I must meet death unaided." 

" Time's fully up ! Now have done with your prayer," 
Shouted Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair ; 
Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair, 

Swung his glittering weapon around him ; 
But a loud knock rang at the castle gate, 
And Fatima was saved from her horrible fate, 
For shocked with surprise, he paused too late ; 

And then the two soldiers found him. 

They were her brothers, and quick as they knew 
What the fiend was doing, their swords they drew, 
And attacked him fiercely, and ran him through, 

So that soon he was mortally wounded. 
With a wild remorse was his conscience filled 
When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed ; 
But quickly the last of his blood was spilled, 

And his dying groan was sounded. 

As soon as Fatima recovered from fright. 
She embraced her brothers with great delight ; 
And they were as glad and as grateful quite 

As she was glad and grateful. 
Then they all went out from that scene of pain, 
And sought in quietude to regain 
Their minds, which had come to be quite insane, 

In a place so horrid and hateful. 



94 BITTER-SWEET. 

*Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had ; 

For the people knew he was very bad, 

And, though they said nothing, they all were glad 

For the fall of the evil-doer ; 
But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made. 
And there the unfortunate ladies were laid, 
And after some painful months, with the aid 

Of her friends, her spirits came to her. 



Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor. 
And an acre of land around each door, 
And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, 

To her tenantry she granted. 
So all of them had enough to eat, 
And their love for her was so complete 
They would kiss the dust from her little feet. 

Or do anything she wanted. 



SAMUEL. 

Capital ! Capital ! Wasn't it good ! 

I should like to have been one brother ; 

If I had been, you may reckon there would 

Have been little work for the other. 

I'd have run him right through the heart, just so. 

And cut off his head at a single blow, 

And killed him so quickly he'd never know 

What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe ? 



JOSEPH. 

You are very brave with your bragging tongue ; 
But if you had been there, you'd have sung 
A very different tune. 



BITTER-SWEET. 95 

Poor Blue Beard ! He would have been afraid 
Of a little boy with a penknife blade, 
Or a tiny pewter spoon ! 



SAMUEL. 

It makes no difference what you say 
(Pretty little boy, afraid to play !) 
But it served him rightly any way, 

And gave him just his due. 
And wasn't it good that his little wife 
Should live in his castle the rest of her life, 

And have all his money too ? 



REBEKAH. 

I'm thinking of the ladies who 
Were lying in the Chamber Blue, 
With all their small necks cut in two. 

I see them lying, half a score, 

In a long row upon the floor, 

Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore. 

I know the sweet Fatima would 
Have put their heads on if she could ; 
And made them live — she was so good ; 

And washed their faces at the sink ; 
But Blue Beard was not sane, I think : 
I wonder if he did not drink ! 

For no man in his proper mind 
Would be so cruelly inclined 
As to kill ladies who were kind. 



96 BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

[Stepping forward with David. 

Story and comment alike are bad ; 
These little fellows are raving mad 

With thinking what they should do, 
Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had 
Given her heart — and her head — to a lad 
Like the man with the Beard of Blue. 

Each little jacket 

Is now a packet 
Of murderous thoughts and fancies ; 

Oh, the gentle trade 

By which fiends are made 

With the ready aid 
Of these bloody old romances ! 
And the little girl takes the woman's turn, 
And thinks that the old curmudgeon 
Who owned a castle, and rolled in gold 
Over fields and gardens manifold, 
And kept in his house a family tomb, 
With his bowling course and his billiard-room, 
Where he could preserve his precious dead. 
Who took the kiss of the bridal bed 
From one who straightway took their head, 
And threw it away with the pair of gloves 
In which he wedded his hapless loves, 
Had some excuse for his dudgeon. 

DAVID. 

We learn by contrast to admire 
The beauty that enchains us ; 
And know the object of desire 
By that which pains us. 



BITTER-SWEET. 9/ 

The roses blushing at the door, 

The lapse of leafy June, 
The singing birds, the sunny shore, 
The summer moon ; — 

All these entrance the eye or ear 

By innate grace and charm ; 
But o'er them, reaching through the year. 
Hangs Winter's arm, 

To give to memory the sign, 

The index of our bliss. 
And show by contrast how divine 
The Summer is. 

From chilling blasts and stormy skies, 

Bare hills and icy streams. 
Touched into fairest life arise 
Our summer dreams. 

And virtue never seems so fair 

As when we lift our gaze 
From the red eyes and bloody hair 
That vice displays. 

We are too low, — our eyes too dark 

Love's height to estimate, 
Save as we note the sunken mark 
Of brutal Hate. 

So this ensanguined tale shall move 

Aright each little dreamer. 
And Blue Beard teach them how to love 
The sweet Fatima. 

5 



g8 BITTER-SWEET. 

They hate his crimes, and it is well ; 

They pity those who died ; 
Their sense of justice when he fell 
Was satisfied. 

No fierce revenges are the fruit 

Of their just indignation ; 
They sit in judgment on the brute, 
And condemnation ; 

And turn to her, his rescued wife, 
Her deeds so kind and human, 
And love the beauty of her life, 
And bless the woman. 

RUTH. 

That is the way I supposed you would twist it ; 
And now that the boys are disposed of, 
And the moral so handsomely closed off, 
"What do you say of the girl ? That she missed it, 
When she thought of old Blue Beard as some do of 

Judas, 
Who with this notion essay to delude us : 
That when he relented. 
And fiercely repented. 
He was hardly so bad 
As he commonly had 
The fortune to be represented ? 

DAVID. 

The noblest pity in the earth 

Is that bestowed on sin. 
The Great Salvation had its birth 
That ruth within. 



BITTER-SWEET. 99 



The girl is nearest God, in fact ; 

The boy gives crime its due ; 
She blames the author of the act, 
And pities too. 

Thus, from this strange excess of wrong, 

Her tender heart has caught 
The noblest truth, the sweetest song, 
The Saviour taught. 

So, more than measured homily. 

Of sage, or priest, or preacher, 
Is this wild tale of cruelty 

Love's gentle teacher. 

It tells of sin, its deep remorse, 

Its fitting recompense. 
And vindicates the tardy course 
Of Providence. 

These boyish bosoms are on fire 

With chivalric possession. 
And burn with just and manly ire 
Against oppression. 

The glory and the grace of life. 

And Love's surpassing sweetness, 
Rise from the monster to the wife 

In high completeness ; 

And thence look down with mercy's eye 

On sin's accurst abuses. 
And seek to wrest from charity 
Some fair excuses. 



iOO BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

These greedy mouths are watering 
For the fruit within the basket ; 
And, although they will not ask it, 
Their jack-knives all are burning 
And their eager hands are yearning 

For the peeling and the quartering. 
So let us have done with our talk ; 
For they are too tired to say their prayers, 
And the time is come they should walk 
From the story below to the story up stairs. 



THE THIRD MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY— T^^r Kitchen. 

PRESENT— David, Ruth, John, Peter, Prudence, and 
Patibnce. 

THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE 
DENOUEMENT. 

JOHN. 

Since the old gentleman retired to bed, 

Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth, 

Have wasted thirty minutes underground 

In explorations. One would think the house 

Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave, 

And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace 

Still hold their chamber and their conference. 

And pour into each other's greedy ears 

Their stream of talk, whose low, monotonous hum, 

Would lull to slumber any storm but this. 

The children are play-tired and gone to bed ; 

And one may know by looking round the room 

Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk, 

Who have no gift of speech, especially 

On themes which we and none may understand, 

Have yawned and nodded in the great square room, 

And wondered if the parted family 

Would ever meet again. 



I02 BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

John, do you see 
The apples and the cider on the hearth ? 
If I remember rightly, you discuss 
Such themes as these with noticeable zest 
And pleasant tokens of intelligence ; 
Rather preferring scanty company 
To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead, 
And help yourself. 

JOHN. 

Aye ! That I will, and give 
Your welcome invitation currency. 
In the old-fashioned way. Come ! Help yourselves ! 

DAVID. 

[Looking out from the window. 

The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls ! 

The atmosphere is plunging like the sea 

Against the woods, and pouring on the night 

The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray 

O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on 

In lines as level as the window-bars. 

What curious visions, in a night like this, 

Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees. 

And zigzag fences ! I was almost sure 

I saw a man staggering along the road 

A moment since ; but instantly the shape 

Dropped from my sight. Hark ! Was not that a call — 

A human voice ? There's a conspiracy 

Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks. 

Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul 

Who needs assistance. There he stands again, 

And with unsteady essay strives to breast 

The tempest. Hush ! Did you not hear that cry ? 



BITTER-SWEET. IO3 

Quick, brothers ! We must out, and give our aid. 
None but a dying and despairing man 
Ever gave utterance to a cry like that. 
Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me ! 

RUTH. 

Alas ! 
Who can he be, who on a night like this, 
And on this night, of all nights in the year, 
Holds to the highway, homeless ? 

PRUDENCE. 

Probably 
Some neighbor started from his home in quest 
Of a physician ; or, more likely still. 
Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome 
By his sad keeping of the holiday. 
I hope they'll give him quarters in the barn ; 
If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me. 

PATIENCE. 

I'll not believe it was a man at all ; 
David and Ruth are always seeing things 
That no one else sees. 

RUTH. 

I see plainly now 
What we shall all see plainly, soon enough. 
The man is dead, and they are bearing him 
As if he were a log. Quick ! Stir the fire. 
And clear the settle ! We must lay him there. 
I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs 
With which to chafe him ; open wide the door. 

( The men enter, bearing a body apparently lifeless, which 
they lay upon the settle. 



I04 BITTER-SWEET. 

DAVID. 

Now do my bidding, orderly and swift ; 

And we may save from death a fellow man. 

Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes, 

And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth ! 

Administer that cordial yourself. 

John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours 

Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I say ! 

My hand is on his heart, and I can feel 
Both warmth and motion. If we persevere. 
He will be saved. Work with a will, I say ! 

A groan ? Ha ! That is good. Another groan ? 
Better and better ! 

RUTH. 

It is down at last ! — 
A spoonful of the cordial. His breath 
Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand. 

DAVID. 

Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, too ; 
And we shall be rewarded presently, 
For there is life in him. 

He moves his lips 
And tries to speak. 

And now he opes his eyes. 
What eyes ! How wandering and wild they are ! 

[ To the stranger. 

We are your friends. We found you overcome 
By the cold storm without, and brought you in. 



BITTER-SWEET. I05 

We are your friends, I say ; so be at ease, 
And let us do according to your need. 
What is your wish ? 

STRANGER. 

My friends ? O God in Heaven ! 
They've cheated me ! I'm in the hospital. 
Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus ! 
No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain 
Racks my poor body ! 

DAVID. 

Poor man, how he raves ! 
Let us be silent while the warmth and wine 
Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow. 
And each dead sense comes back to life again, 
O'er the same path of torture which it trod 
When it went out from him. He'll slumber soon ; 
And, when he wakens, we may talk with him. 

PRUDENCE. 

[SoUo voce. 
Shall I not call the family ? I think 
Mary and Grace must both be very cold ; 
And they know nothing of this strange affair. 
I'll wait them at the landing, and secure 
Their silent entrance. 

DAVID. 

If it please you — well ! 
[Prudence retires, and returns with Gracb and MARY. 

MARY. 

Why ! We heard nothing of it — Grace and I : — 

What a cadaverous hand ! How blue and thin ! 

f * 



I06 BITTER-SWEET. 

DAVID. 

At his first wild awaking he bemoaned 

His fancied durance in a hospital ; 

And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought 

He may have fled a mad-house. Matters not! 

We've done our duty, and preserved his life. 

MARY. 

Shall I disturb him if I look at him ? 
I'm strangely curious to see his face. 

DAVID. 

Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word 
Whether he sleeps. 

[Mary rises, goes to the settle, and sinks back fainting. 

Why! What ails the girl? 
I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow 
And bathe her temples ! 

MARY. 

There — there, — that will do. 
'Tis over now. 

DAVID. 

The man is speaking. Hush ! 

STRANGER. 

Oh, what a heavenly dream ! But it is past, 

Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more 

Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams, 

But everlasting wakefulness. The eye 

Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh 

May close no more in slumber. 



BITTER-SWEET. IO7 

I must die ! 
This painless spell which binds my weary limbs — 
This peace ineffable of soul and sense — 
Is dissolution's herald, and gives note 
That life is conquered and the struggle o'er. 
But I had hoped to see her ere I died ; 
To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss. 
Pledge to my soul that in the coming heaven 
We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin 
Our hearts and lives so madly sundered here, 
Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well. 
God's will be done ! 



I dreamed that I had reached 
The old red farm-house, — that I saw the light 
Flaming as brightly as in other times 
It flushed the kitchen windows ; and that forms 
Were sliding to and fro in joyous life. 
Restless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed 
Of the dear woman who went out with me 
One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring. 

To wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive — 

Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong, 
And let me die ! Oh, let me — let me die ! 
Mary ! my Mary ! Could you only know 
How I have suffered since I fled from you, — 
How I have sorrowed through long months of pain, 
And prayed for pardon, — you would pardon me. 



DAVID. 

[Soito voce,. 

Mary, what means this ? Does he dream alone, 
Or are we dreaming ? 



I08 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

Edward, I am here. 
I am your Mary ! Know you not my face ? 
My husband, speak to me ! Oh, speak once more ! 
This is no dream, but kind reality. 

EDWARD. 
[J?aisin^ himself, and looking wildly around. 

You, Mary? Is this heaven, and am I dead? 
I did not know you died : when did you die ? 
And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth 
Grown to a woman ; are they all with you ? 
'Tis very strange ! O pity me, my friends ! 
For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too ; 
Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold, 
And look on me with sad severity. 
Have you no pardoning word — no smile for me ? 

MARY. 

This is not Heaven's but Earth's reality ; 

This is the farm-house — these your wife and friends. 

I hold your hand, and I forgive you all. 

Pray you recline ! You are not strong enough 

To bear this yet. 

EDWARD. 

\^Sinking back. 

O toiling heart ! O sick and sinking heart ! 

Give me one hour of service, ere I die ! 

This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh, 

And I am here where I have prayed to be. 

My God, I thank thee ! Thou hast heard my prayer, 

And, in its answer, given me a pledge 

Of the acceptance of my penitence. 

How have I yearned for this one priceless hour ! 



BITTER-SWEET. IO9 

Cling to me, dearest, while my feet go down 
Into the silent stream ; nor loose your hold, 
Till angels grasp me on the other side. 

MARY. 

Edward, you are not dying — must not die; 
For only now are we prepared to live. 
You must have quiet, and a night of rest. 
Be silent, if you love me ! 

EDWARD. 

If I love ? 
Ah, Mary ! never till this blessed hour, 
When power and passion, lust and pride are gone, 
Have I perceived what wedded love may be ; — 
Unutterable fondness, soul for soul ; 
Profoundest tenderness between two hearts 
Allied by nature, interlocked by life. 
I know that I shall die ; but the low clouds 
That closed my mental vision have retired. 
And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven. 
I must talk now, or never more on earth ; 
So do not hinder me. 

MARY. 

[ Weeping. 

Have you a wish 
That I can gratify ? Have you any words 
To send to other friends ? 

EDWARD. 

I have no friends 
But you and these, and only wish to leave 
My worthless name and memory redeemed 
Within your hearts to pitying respect. 



no BITTER-SWEET. 

I have no strength, and it becomes me not, 

To tell the story of my life and sin. 

I was a drunkard, thief, adulterer ; 

And fled from shame, with shame, to find remorse. 

I had but few months of debauchery. 

Pursued with mad intent to damp or drown 

The flames of a consuming conscience, when 

My body, poisoned, crippled with disease, 

Refused the guilty service of my soul. 

And at mid- day fell prone upon the street. 

Thence I was carried to a hospital, 

And there I woke to that delirium 

Which none but drunkards this side of the pit 

May even dream of. 

But at last there came, 
With abstinence and kindly medicines. 
Release from pain, and peaceful sanity ; 
And then Christ found me, ready for His hand. 
I was not ready for Him when He came 
And asked me for my youth ; and when He knocked 
At my heart's door in manhood's early prime 
With tenderest monitions, I debarred 
His waiting feet with promise and excuse ; 
And when, in after years, absorbed in sin, 
The gentle summons swelled to thunderings 
That echoed through the chambers of my soul 
With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears ; 
And then He went away, and let me rush 
Without arrest, or protest, toward the pit. 
I made swift passage downward, till, at length, 
I had become a miserable wreck — 
Pleasure behind me ; only pain before ; 
My life lived out ; the fires of passion dead ; 
Without a friend ; no pride, no power, no hope ; 



BITTER-SWEET. 1 1 1 

No motive in me e'en to wish for life. 

Then, as I said, Christ came, with stem and sad 

Reminders of His mercy and my guilt, 

And the door fell before Him. 

I went out, 
And trod the wildernesses of remorse 
For many days. Then from their outer verge, 
Tortured and blinded, I plunged madly down 
Into the sullen bosom of despair ; 

But strength from Heaven was given me, and preserved 
Breath in my bosom, till a light streamed up 
Upon the other shore, and I struck out 
On the cold waters, struggling for my life. 
Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees 
Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence. 
Till I could see, upon its distant brow, 
The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran — I flew — 
And grasped his outstretched hand. It lifted me 
High on the everlasting rock, and then 
It folded me, with all my griefs and tears, 
My sin-sick body and my guilt-stained soul, 
To the great heart that throbs for all the world. 

MARY. 

Dear Lord, I bless thee ! Thou hast heard my prayer 
And saved the wanderer ! Hear it once again, 
And lengthen out the life thou hast redeemed ! 

ED VIZARD. 

Mary, my wife, forbear ! I may not give 
Response to such petition. I have prayed 
That I may die. When first the love Divine 
Received me on its bosom, and in mine 
T felt the springing of another life, 



112 BITTER-SWEET. 

I begged the Lord to gra it me two requests : 
The first that I might die^ and in that world 
Where passion sleeps, and only influence 
From Him and those who cluster at His throne 
Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great life, 
Bursting within me, might be perfected. 
The second, that your life, my love, and mine 
Might be once more united on the earth 
In holy marriage, and that mine might be 
Breathed out at last within your loving arms. 
One prayer is granted, and the other waits 
But a brief space for its accomplishment. 

MARY. 

But why this prayer to die ? Still loving me, — 
With the great motive for desiring life 
And the deep secret of enjoyment won, — 
Why pray for death ? 

EDWARD. 

Do*you not know me, Mary? 
I am afraid to live, for I am weak. 
I've found a treasure only life can steal ; 
I've won a jewel only death will keep. 
In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl 
Would not be safe. That which I would not take 
When health was with me, — which I spurned away 
So long as I had power to sin, I fear 
Would be surrendered with that power's return 
And the temptation to its exercise. 
For soul like mine, diseased in every part, 
There is but one condition in which grace 
May give it service. For my malady 
The Great Physician draws the blood away 
That only flows to feed its baleful fires ; 



BITTER-SWEET. II3 

For only thus the balsam and the balm 
May touch the springs of healing. 

So I pray 
To be delivered from myself, — to be 
Delivered from necessity of ill, — 
To be secured from bringing harm to you. 
Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul ! 
I greet it with a joy that passes speech. 
Were the whole world to come before me now, — 
Wealth with its treasures ; Pleasure with its cup ; 
Power robed in purple ; Beauty in its pride, 
And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded ; 
Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown, — 
To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away, 
And stretch my hands with utter eagerness 
Toward the pale angel waiting for me now, 
And give myself to him, to be led out. 
Serenely singing, to the land of shade. 

MARY. 

Edward, I yield you. I would not retain 
One who has strayed so long from God and heaven, 
When his weak feet have found the only path 
Open for such as he. 

EDWARD. 

My strength recedes; 
But ere it fail, tell me how fares your life. 
You have seen sorrow ; but it comforts me 
To hear the language of a chastened soul 
From one perverted by my guilty hand. 
You speak the dialect of the redeemed — 
The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so, 
And you are happy. 



1 1 4 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

With sweet hope and trust 
I may reply, 'tis as you think and wish. 
I have seen sorrow, surely, and the more 
That I have seen what was far worse ; but God 
Sent his own servant to me to restore 
My sadly straying feet to the sure path ; 
And in my soul I have the pledge of grace 
Which shall suffice to keep them there. 

EDWARD. 

Ah, joy! 
You found a friend ; and my o'erflowing heart, 
Welling with gratitude, pours out to him 
For his kind ministry its fitting meed. 
Oh, breathe his name to me, that my poor lips 
May bind it to a benison, and that, 
While dying, I may whisper it with those — 
Jesus and Mary — which I love the best. 
Name him, I pray you. 

MARY. 

You would ask of me 
To bear your thanks to him, and to rehearse 
Your dying words ? 

GRACE. 

He asks your good friend's name. 
You do not understand him. 

MARY. 

It is hard 
To give denial to a dying wish ; 
But, Edward, I've no right to speak his name. 
He was a Christian man, and you may give 



BITTER-SWEET. 1 1 5 

Of the full largess of your gratitude 

All, without robbing God, you have to give, 

And fail, e'en then, of worthy recompense, 

EDWARD. 

Your will is mine. 

GRACE. 

Nay, Mary, tell it him! 
Where is he going he should bruit the name? 
Remember where he lies, and that no ears 
Save those of angels 

MARY. 

There are others here 
Who may not hear it. 

RUTH. 

We will all retire. 
It is not proper we should linger here, 
Barring the sacred confidence of hearts 
Parting so sadly. 

DAVID. 

Mary, you must yield, 
Nor keep the secret longer from your friends. 

MARY. 
David, you know not what you say. 

DAVID. 

I know ; 
So give the dying man no more delay. 



Ii6 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

1 will declare it under your command. 

This stranger friend — stranger for many months — 

This man, selectest instrument of Heaven, 

Who gave me succor in my hour of need, 

Snatched me from ruin, rescued me from want. 

Counselled and cheered me, prayed with me, and then 

Led me with careful hand into the light. 

Was he now bending over you in tears — 

David, my brother ! 

EDWARD. 

Blessed be his name ! 
Brother by every law, above — below ! 

GRACE. 

\Pale and trembling, 

David? My husband? Did I hear aright? 

You are not jesting! Sure you would not jest 

At such a juncture ! Speak, my husband, speak ! 

Is this a plot to cheat a dying man, 

Or cheat a wife who, if it be no plot. 

Is worthy death ? What can you mean by this ? 

MARY. 

Not more nor less than my true words convey. 

GRACE. 
Nay, David, tell me ! 

DAVID. 

Mary's words are truth. 



BITTER-SWEET. II7 

GRACE. 
O mean and jealous heart, what hast thou done ! 
What wrong to honor, spite to Christian love, 
And shame to self beyond self- pardoning ! 
How can I ever lift my faithless eyes 
To those true eyes that I have counted false ; 
Or meet those lips that I have charged with lies ; 
Or win the dear embraces I have spurned ? 

most unhappy, most unworthy wife ! 

No one but he who still has clung to thee,-— 
Proud, and imperious, and impenitent, — 
No one but he who has in silence borne 
Thy peevish criminations and complaints 
Can now forgive thee, when in deepest shame 
Thou bowest with confession of thy faults. 
Dear husband ! David ! Look upon your wife ! 
Behold one kneeling never knelt to you ! 

1 have abused you and your faithful love, 
And, in my great humiliation, pray 

You will not trample me beneath your feet. 

Pity my weakness, and remember, too. 

That Love was jealous of thee, and not Hate — 

That it was Love's own pride tormented me. 

My husband, take me once more to your arms, 

And kiss me in forgiveness ; say that you 

Will be my counsellor, my friend, my love ; 

And I will give myself to you again. 

To be all yours — my reason, confidence. 

My faith and trust all yours, my heart's best love, 

My service and my prayers, all yours — all yours ! 

DAVID. 

Rise, dearest, rise ! It gives me only pain 
That such as you should kneel to such as I. 
Your words inform me that you know how weak 



Il8 BITTER-SWEET. 

I am whom you have only fancied weak. 

Forgive you ? I forgive you everything ; 

And take the pardon which your prayer insures. 

Let this embrace, this kiss, be evidence 

Our jarring hearts catch common rhythm again, 

And we are lovers. 

RUTH. 

Hush ! You trouble him. 
He understands this scene no more than we. 
Mary, he speaks to you. 

EDWARD. 

Dear wife, farewell! 
The room grows dim, and silently and soft 
The veil is dropping 'twixt my eyes and yours, 
Which soon will hide me from you — you from me. 
Only one hand is warm ; it rests in yours. 
Whose full, sweet pulses throb along my arm, 
So that I live upon them. Cling to me ! 
And thus your life, after my life is past. 
Shall lay me gently in the arms of Death. 
Thus shall you link your being with a soul 
Gazing unveiled upon the Great White Throne. 

Dear hearts of love surrounding me, farewell ! 

I cannot see you now ; or, if I do, 

You are transfigured. There are floating forms 

That whisper over me like summer leaves ; 

And now there comes, and spreads through all my soul 

Delicious influx of another life. 

From out whose essence spring, like living flowers. 

Angelic senses with quick ultimates. 

That catch the rustle of ethereal robes. 

And the thin chime of melting minstrelsy — 



BITTER-SWEET. 1 19 

Rising and falling — answered far away — 

As Echo, dreaming in the twilight woods, 

Repeats the warble of her twilight birds. 

And flowers that mock the Iris toss their cups 

In the impulsive ether, and spill out 

Sweet tides of perfume, fragrant deluges, 

Flooding my spirit like an angel's breath. 

• .•• • • • . • • • • 
And still the throng increases ; still unfold 
With broader span and more elusive sweep 
The radiant vistas of a world divine. 
But O my soul ! what vision rises now ! 
Far, far away, white blazing like the sun, 
In deepest distance and on highest height. 
Through walls diaphanous, and atmosphere 
Flecked with unnumbered forms of missive power, 
Out-going fleetly and returning slow, 
A presence shines I may not penetrate ; 
But on a throne, with smile ineffable, 
I see a form my conscious spirit knows. 
Jesus, my Saviour! Jesus, Lamb of God! 
Jesus who taketh from me all my sins, 
And from the world ! Jesus, I come to thee ! 
Come thou to me ! O come. Lord, quickly ! Come I 

DAVID. 

Flown on the wings of rapture ! Is this death ? 

His heart is still ; his beaded brow is cold ; 

His wasted breast struggles for breath no more ; 

And his pale features, hardened with the stress 

Of Life's resistance, momently subside 

Into a smile, calm as a twilight lake, 

Sprent with the images of rising stars. 

We have seen Evil in his countless forms 

In these poor lives ; have met his armed hosts 



I20 BITTER-SWEET. 

In dread encounter and discomfiture ; 
And languished in captivity to them, 
Until we lost our courage and our faith ; 
And here we see their Chieftain — Terror's King ! 
He cuts the knot that binds a weary soul 
To faithless passions, sateless appetites, 
And powers perverted, and it flies away 
Singing toward Heaven. He turns and looks at us, 
And finds us weeping with our gratitude- 
Full of sweet sorrow, — sorrow sweeter far 
Than the supremest ecstasy of joy. 

And this is death ! Think you that raptured soul 

Now walking humbly in the golden streets. 

Bearing the precious burden of a love 

Too great for utterance, or with hushed heart 

Drinking the music of the ransomed throng, 

Counts death an evil ? — evil, sickness, pain, 

Calamity, or aught that God prescribed 

To cure it of its sin, and bring it where 

The healing hand of Christ might touch it ? No ! 

He is a man to-night — a man in Christ. 

This was his childhood, here ; and as we give 

A smile of wonder to the little woes 

That drew the tears from out our own young eyes— 

The kind corrections and severe constraints 

Imposed by those who loved us — so he sees 

A father's chastisement in all the ill 

That filled his life with darkness ; so he sees 

In every evil a kind instrument 

To chasten, elevate, correct, subdue, 

And fit him for that heavenly estate — 

Saintship in Christ — the Manhood Absolute. 



L'ENVOY. 

Midnight and silence! In the West, unveiled, 
The broad, full moon is shining, with the stars. 
On mount and valley, forest, roof, and rock. 
On billowy hills smooth-stretching to the sky, 
On rail and wall, on all things far and near, 
Cling the bright crystals, — all the earth a floor 
Of polished silver, pranked with bending forms 
Uplifting to the light their precious weight 
Of pearls and diamonds, set in palest gold. 
The storm is dead ; and when it rolled away 
It took no star from heaven, but left to earth 
Such legacy of beauty as The Wind — 
The light -robed shepherdess from Cuban groves — 
Driving soft showers before her, and warm airs, 
And her wide-scattered flocks of wet-winged birds, 
Never bestowed upon the waiting Spring. 
Pale, silent, smiling, cold, and beautiful ! 
Do storms die thus ? And is it this to die ? 

Midnight and silence ! In that hallowed room 
God's full-orbed peace is shining, with the stars. 
On head and hand, on brow, and lip, and eye. 
On folded arms, on broad unmoving breast. 
On the white-sanded floor, on everything. 
Rests the pale radiance, while bending forms 
Stand all around, loaded with precious weight 
Of jewels such as holy angels wear. 
6 



122 BITTER-SWEET. 

The man is dead ; and when he passed away 
He blotted out no good, but left behind 
Such wealth of faith, such store of love and trust, 
As breath of joy, in-floating from the isles 
Smiled on by ceaseless summer, and indued 
With foliage and flowers parennial. 
Never conveyed to the enchanted soul. 
Do men die thus ? And is it this to die ? 

Midnight and silence ! At each waiting bed, 
Husband and wife, embracing, kneel in prayer; 
And lips unused to such a benison 
Breathe blessings upon evil, and give thanks 
For knowledge of its sacred ministry. 
An infant nestles on a mother's breast. 
Whose head is pillowed where it has not lain 
For months of wasted life — the tale all told, 
And confidence and love for-aye secure. 

The widow and the virgin : where are they ? 

The morn shall find them watching with the dead, 

Like the two angels at the tomb of Christ, — 

One at the head, the other at the foot, — 

Guarding a sepulchre whose occupant 

Has risen, and rolled the heavy stone away! 



THE PURITAN'S GUEST. 



THE PURITAN'S GUEST. 



The house stood back from the old Bay Road 
That wound through Sudbury town ; 

Before it a brawhng streamlet flowed ; 
Behind it the woods shut down. 

Dwelt there the Puritan, good John Guye, 
With the daughters God had given, — 

Three beautiful maidens fair and shy, 
Whose mother was in heaven. 

And one was Patience, so tall and fair; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue. 

And horsemen, riding along that way, 

Drank at the household spring, 
And asked of the maids the time o' day. 

Or brought them news of the King. 

It seemed like a glimpse of heaven to see, 

In sun and storm the same, 
These three fair maidens at windows three 

To the riders who went and came. 



126 THE puritan's GUEST. 

It seemed like an hour in heaven to sit, 

When the winter wind blew hoarse, 
And watch these diligent maidens knit, 

And hear John Guye's discourse. 

If love was lighted, ah, who may say ! — 

It was centuries ago ; — 
And maids were the same in the olden day 

That they are now, I trow. 

And who shall wonder, or who condemn— 

For their life had scanty zest — 
If dangerous fancies came to them, 

As the men rode east and west? 

Guye ruled his house by the olden law, 

And he knew the heart of a maid ; 
And, watching with godly care, he saw 

What made his soul afraid ! 

For smiles shone up from the saucy lips 

That drank at the household spring. 
And kisses were tossed from finger-tips 

With the tidings of the King. 

And the eyes that should have flamed with fire. 

And spurned these gallant arts. 
Grew soft and sad with a strange desire. 

Over tender and troubled hearts. 

" Ah God ! " groaned the Puritan, good John Guye, 

" That such a woe can be ! — 
That their mother should be in heaven, and I 

Should be left with daughters three ! " 



THE puritan's GUEST. \2^ 

(And one was Patience, so tall and fair ; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue.) 



II. 

From the bitter sea it had blown all day, 
And the night came hurrying down ; 

And snow from a sky all cold and gray 
Was whitening Sudbury town. 

The chimney roared like an angry beast, 

With eyes and tongues of fire, 
And the crazy windows facing east 

Shook in the tempest's ire. 

The sleety snow fell heavy and fast ; 

It beat on the roof like rain ; 
And the forest hurtled beneath the blast 

Of the dreadful hurricane ! 

The autumn leaves that had flown all day, 

In wild and scurrying flocks, 
Were pelted down by the hail, and lay 

Huddled among the rocks. 

** 'Tis a fearful storm ! " said good John Guye, 
As he looked at' his daughters three ; 

" And the riders abroad to-night must die ; 
And many such there be ! " 

Their cheeks grew pale in the ruddy blaze 

With what their ears had heard. 
And they looked in the fire with grieved amaze ; 

But they could not speak a word. 



128 THE puritan's GUEST. 

(And one was Patience, so tall and fair ; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue.) 

'Twas an owl flew hooting out of the trees, 

In a lull of the tempest's wrath ; 
And caught mid-air by the crafty breeze, 

He wrestled for his path. 

He wrestled long, but he strove in vain 
With the fierce and blinding gloom ; 

He was shot like a bolt through the window-pane, 
And a great gust filled the room. 

They sprang to their feet in sharp affrigh , 

But still no word they said. 
As they stopped the window from the night ; 

And the great white bird lay dead ! 

*' 'Tis a fearful storm ! " said good John Guye ; 

" Heaven help all those abroad ! 
For the men who ride, and the birds that fly, 

Let us kneel and pray to God ! " 

But while they knelt, and the hoary saint 

Groaned with the stress of prayer. 
They heard from a wanderer, far and faint, 

A shriek of wild despair. 

" Thank God ! " said the Puritan, rising straight ; 

" Thank God, my daughters three. 
That the answer of heaven does not wait, 

And my guest has come to me ! " 



THE PURITAN S GUEST. 129 

He flung to the wall the oaken door ; 

He passed it with a bound ; 
And plunging into the darkness frore, 

He listened along the ground. 

Prone on the path he found his guest; 

His hair was streaming wild ; 
Guye lifted him to his mighty breast 

As he had been a child. 

The maidens three peered into the storm ; ^ 

It smote their brows like death ; 
They saw their father's stalwart form ; 

They heard his struggling breath. 

(And one was Patience, so tall and fair ; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue.) 

They laid the stranger before the flame. 

They nursed him till he stirred, — 
Till he opened his eyes, and spoke a name !— 

'Twas a woman's name they heard ! 

They nursed him long with tender care, 

The while he moaned and wept ; 
He wakened anon to breathe a prayer 

And anon he sank and slept. 

The ghostly shade of a man he seemed ; 

His teeth were white as milk ; 

And the long white curls on his forehead gleamed 

Like skeins of tangled silk. 
6* 



I30 THE puritan's GUEST. 

His eyes peered out with an eerie stare,— 
They were wondrous deep and large, — 

And they looked like mountains tarns aglare 
Beneath their beetling marge ! 

He rose straight up from his lowly bed ; 

He looked at the maidens three ; 
" I have lost my wits, you see," he said ; 

" I have lost my wits," said he. 

Each maid bowed low as he gazed at her. 

In the sweet, old-fashioned way ; 
For they guessed that he was a minister 

From the Massachusetts Bay. 

(And one was Patience, so tall and fair ; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue.) 

He looked above and he looked around ; 

With fear their bosoms beat ; 
He looked till the lifeless bird he found, 

And he lifted it by its feet. 

He lifted it in his tender hands ; 

He nursed it on his breast ; 
"Oh God!" he groaned, "in what strange lands 

Does my own dear birdling rest ! " 

He sang to the bird a thin, old tune ; 

It quavered like a rill 
That, leaping the leafy steps of June, 

Goes purling at its will. 



V 



THE puritan's GUEST. 131 

He smoothed the feathers upon its neck 

With his fingers pale and fine : 
*' She was white as thee, thou snowy wreck, 

But her fate is worse than thine ! " 

And then he wept like a silly child, 

And the maidens wept around ; 
For they doubted his wits had wandered wild 

And his heart had a cruel wound. 

'* Pry thee tell thy tale" — the voice was Guye's— 

" If thou hast tale to tell ; " 
The Puritan brushed his blinded eyes, 

And the maidens hearkened well. 

They leaned to list to the tale accursed ; 

He leaned to their eyes, and said : 
*' I think, 'twas a little hair at first, — 

A hair from her lover's head ! 

"It came in a gift of mignonette. 

And many a dainty bloom 
Of briar and pink and violet, 

"Whose perfume filled her room. 

" She nourished it under the nightly dew, 

She fed it from her soul ; 
And it grew and grew, until she knew 

That a viper was in the bowl ! 

" She nourished it through the evening hours ; 

She watched it day by day ; 
She nourished it till the withered flowers 

Were culled and thrown awaCy. 



132 THE puritan's GUEST. 

" She cherished it with a tender smile ; 

She touched it without fear ; 
And I marveled much that a thing so vile 

Should be to her so dear. 

"'Oh Hester, Hester! my daughter sweet! 

The viper will work you harm ! ' 
But she trod my warning beneath her feet, 

And courted the awful charm. 

*' ^ Oh father, father! I may not scorn 
A creature that love hath made ; 

For never was life so sweetly born, 
And I cannot be afraid. 

" * Oh, look at its glittering eyes!" she said 

They shine on me like stars ! 
And look at its dapples, so green and red, 

And the sidelong, golden bars! 

*' ' Was ever a creature brave as this 

By mortal maiden found ? ' 
The serpent raised his head with a hiss, 

And merrily swam around ! 

" She laughed so loud, so long she laughed, 
That I could nought but groan ; 

For I knew my child was going daft 
With the charm about her thrown. 

"The bowl was strait for the noisome thing, 
And it lengthened more and more. 

Till it leaped, and lay in a mottled ring 
Upon her chamber floor ! 



THE PURITANS GUEST. 1 33 

'' All wonderful hues the rainbow knows 

Gleamed forth from its scaly skin, 
And up from the center its crest arose, 

And the tongue shot out and in ! 

'' The moon was shining : I could not sleep : 

I clomb the silent stairs : 
I sought her door in the midnight deep, 

And I caught her unawares ! 

" Fair as a lily she lay at rest 

In a flood of the ghostly sheen ; 
Fair as twin lilies her virgin breast, 

And the serpent lay between ! " 

Each maid rose shivering like a reed ; 

They stopped their ears with dread : 
" Oh sir, thou hast lost thy wits, indeed !— 

Thou hast lost thy wits ! " they said. 

(And one was Patience, so tall and fair ; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue.) 

He smote them down with a look of woe ! 

" I shouted and shrieked amain ! 
It startled back like a bended bow. 

And slid from the counterpane ! 

** ' Oh Hester, Hester ! how dare you lie 

With the thing upon your breast ! ' 
And I waited to hear what mad reply 

Should break from the serpent's nest ! 



134 THE puritan's .GUEST. 

'' ' Oh father dear ! why come you here ? ' — 

She did not start or scream ; 
' The moon shines bright this time o' the year ; 

I was dreaming a pleasant dream.' 

"I answered her not; I turned around; 

I staggered to my bed ; 
And there I sank in a fearful swound, 

And lay as I were dead. 

" But daily ever the monster grew, 

And lengthened hour by hour, 
And lazily gloated as if it knew 

It held her in its power ! 

" It quivered in every golden flake, 

And grew in such degree, 
That it seemed the snake which the moonbeams make, 

Crawling across the sea. 

" A silken fillet, a cord, a rope, 

A Monster, a Thing of Doom, 
It sucked the air of its life and hope, 

And crowded the tainted room. 

" The midnight hour came round again ; 

The clock ticked like a bell ; 
And I heard through all my burning brain 

The sound of a deed of hell ! 

** It wreathed its coils around her frame ; 

It lifted her in the air ; 
And I heard the dragon as it came ' 

Slow creeping down the stair ! 



THE puritan's GUEST. I35 

"It touched the latch, the door swung back ; 

It leaped the creaking sill ; 
My head was split by a thunder-crack, 

And then the world was still! 

" I could not move, I could not cry, 

But I knew my child was gone ; 
Like a stone in the ground I seemed to lie, 

While the clock ticked on and on ! 

Out into the night they fled away — 

Out from the gaping door — 
And the morning came with another day. 

But she came nevermore ! 

" But I saw it once ! It reared its crest 

Where the sunset clouds were piled ; 
And I swear to Christ 1 will travel west 

Till I kiss once more my child ! " 



III. 

The owl dropped out of his fainting hold, 

His head fell back aghast ; 
*' Ah God!" shrieked the maidens, "thy tale is told, 

And we fear thy soul hath passed." 

Guye lifted him in his arms amain ; 

He bore him to his bed ; 
And the dear Lord eased him of his pain ; 

In the midnight he was dead ! 

The storm grew weary along its path, 

The room was still and warm ; 
But a storm arose of fiercer wrath 

Within each maiden's form. 



136 THE PURITAN'S GUEST. 

It burst in bitterest tears and sighs ; 

It shook them with its grief ; 
They could not look in their father's eyes ; 

They could not find relief. 

They left the dead in the flickering gloom 

They sought their chamber door ; 
And they fearfully scanned the wintry room 

For the form their fancies bore. 

They looked full long but did not find 

That monstrous form of Sin ; 
(Yet a viper may lodge in a maiden's mind) 

And then they looked within. 

All doubtful shapes in hiding there 

They killed in God's pure sight, 
And they swept their penitent souls with prayer 

That wild December night. 

And when they woke on the morrow morn, 

They worshiped — kneeling low — 
And their souls were sweet as the day new-born, 

And white as the drifted snow ! 

And one was Patience, so tall and fair ; 

And one was queenly Prue ; 
And one was Hope with the golden hair ; 

And the eyes of all were blue. 



KATHRINA, 



A TRIBUTE. 

More human, more divine than we — 
In truth, half human, half divine — 

Is woman, when good stars agree 
To temper with their beams benign 

The hour of her nativity. 

The fairest flower the green earth bears, 
Bright with the dew and light of heaven, 

Is, of the double life she wears. 
The type, in grace and glory given 

By soil and sun in equal shares 

True sister of the Son of Man : 
True sister of the Son of God : 

What marvel that she leads the van 
Of those who in the path he trod, 

Still bear the cross and wear the ban ? 

If God be in the sky and sea, 

And live in light and ride the storm, 

Then God is God, although He be 
Enshrined within a woman's form ; 

And claims glad reverence from me. 

So, as I worship Him in Christ, 

And in the Forms of Earth and Air, 

I worship Him imparadised, 

And throned within her bosom fair 

Whom vanity hath not enticed. 



I40 KATHRINA. 

O! woman— mother ! Woman — wife! — 
The sweetest names that language knows '. 

Thy breast, with holy motives rife, 
With holiest affection glows, 

Thou queen, thou angel of my life ! 

Noble and fine in his degree 

Is the best man my heart receives ; 

And this my heart's supremest plea 

For him : he feels, acts, lives, believes. 

And seems, and is, the likest thee. 

O men ! O brothers ! Well I know 
That with her nature in our souls 

Is born the elemental woe — 

The brutal impulse that controls. 

And drives, or drags, the godlike low. 

Ambition, appetite and pride — 

These throng and thrall the hearts of men 
These plat the thorns, and pierce the side 

Of Him who, in our souls again. 
Is spit upon, and crucified. 

The greed for gain, the thirst for power, 
The lust that blackens while it burns ; 

Ah ! these the whitest souls deflour ! 
And one, or all of these by turns, 

Rob man of his divinest dower ! 

Yet man, who shivers like a straw 
Before Temptation's lightest breeze. 

Assumes the master — gives the law 
To her who, on her bended knees, 

Resists the black-winged thunder-flaw! 



KATHRINA. 141 

To him who deems her weak and vain, 
And boasts his own exceeding might, 

She chngs through darkest fortune fain ; 
Still loyal, though the ruffian smite ; 

Still true, though crime his hands distain ! 

And is this weakness ? Is it not 

The strength of God, that loves and bears 

Though He be slighted or forgot 

In damning crimes, or driving cares, 

And closest clings in darkest lot ? 

Not many friends my life has made ; 

Few have I loved, and few are they 
Who in my hand their hearts have laid ; 

And these were women. I am gray, 
But never have I been betrayed. 

These words — this tribute — for the sake 

Of truth to God and womankind ! 
These — that my heart may cease to ache 

With love and gratitude confined. 
And burning from my lips to break! 

These — to that sisterhood of grace 

That numbers in its sacred list 
My mother, risen to her place ; 

My wife, but yester-morning kissed, 
And folded in Love's last embrace ! 

This tribute of a love profound 

As ever moved the heart of man. 
To those to whom my life is bound, 

To her in whom my life began. 
And her whose love my life hath crowned ! 



142 KATHRINA. 

Immortal Love ! Thou still hast wings 
To lift me to those radiant fields, 

Where Music waits with trembling strings, 
And Verse her happy numbers yields, 

And all the soul within me sings. 

So from the lovely Pagan dream 
I call no more the Tuneful Nine ; 

For Woman is my Muse Supreme ; 
And she with fire and flight divine, 

Shall light and lead me to my theme. 



PART I. 

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 

Thou lovely vale of sweetest stream that flows i 

Winding and willow-fringed Connecticut! 

Swift to thy fairest scenes my fancy flies, 

As I recall the story of a life 

Which there began in years of sinless hope, 

And merged maturely into hopeless sin. 

! golden dawning of a da^ of storms, 
That fell ere noontide into rayless night ! 
O ! beautiful initial, vermeil-flowered, 
And bright with cherub-eyes and effigies, 
To the black-letter volume of my life ! 

O ! faery gateway, gilt and garlanded. 
And shining in the sun, to gloomy groves 
Of shadowy cypress, and to sunless streams, 
Feeding with bane the deadly nightshade's roots. 
To vexing labyrinths of doubt and fear. 
And deep abysses of despair and death ! 
Back to thy peaceful villages and fields. 
My memory, like a weary pilgrim, comes 
With scrip and burdon, to repose awhile, — - 
To pluck a daisy from a lonely grave 
Where long ago, in common sepulture, 

1 laid my mother and my faith in God ; 



144 KATHRINA. 

To fix the record of a single day 

So memorably wonderful and sweet 

Its power of inspiration lingers still, — 

So full of her dear presence, so divine 

With the melodious breathing of her words, 

And the warm radiance of her loving smile, 

That tears fall readily as April rain 

At its recall ; to pass in swift review 

The years of adolescence, and the paths 

Of glare and gloom through which, by passion led, 

I reached the fair possession of my power, 

And won the dear possession of my love, 

And then — farewell ! 

Queen-village of the meads 
Fronting the sunrise and in beauty throned. 
With jeweled homes around her lifted brow, 
And coronal of ancient forest trees — 
Northampton sits, and rules her pleasant realm. 
There where the saintly Edwards heralded 
The terrors of the Lord, and men bowed low 
Beneath the menace of his awful words ; 
And there where Nature, with a thousand tongues 
Tender and true, from vale and mountaintop. 
And smiling streams, and landscapes piled afar, 
Proclaimed a gentler Gospel, I was born. 

In an old hotne, beneath an older elm — 

A fount of weeping greenery, that dripped 

Its spray of rain and dew upon the roof — 

I opened eyes on life ; and now return. 

Among the visions of my early years. 

Two so distinct that all the rest grow dim : 

My mother's pale, fond face and tearful eyes. 

Bent upon me in Love's absorbing tranctj, || 



KATHRINA. 145 

From the low window where she watched my play ; 
And, after this, the wondrous elm, that seemed 
To my young fancy like an airy bosk. 
Poised by a single stem upon the earth, 
And thronged by instant marvels. There in Spring 
I heard with joy the cheery blue-bird's note ; 
There sang rejoicing robins after rain ; 
And there within the emerald twilight, which 
Defied the mid-day sun, from bough to bough — 
A torch of downy flame — the oriole 
Passed to his nest, to feed the censer- fires 
Which Love had lit for Airs of Heaven to swing. 
There, too, through all the weird September-eves 
I heard the harsh, reiterant katydids 
Rasp the mysterious silence. There I watched 
The glint of stars, playing at hide-and-seek 
Behind the swaying foliage, till drawn 
By tender hands to childhood's balmy rest. 
My Mother and the elm ! Too soon I learned 
That o'er me hung, and o'er the widowed one 
Who gave me birth, with broader boughs. 
Haunted by sabler wings and sadder sounds, 
A darker shadow than the mighty elm ! 
I caught the secret in the street from those 
Who pointed at me as I passed, or paused 
To gaze in sighing pity on my play ; 
From playmates who, forbidden to divulge 
The knowledge they possessed, with childish tricks 
Of indirection strove in vain to hide 
Their awful meaning in unmeaning phrase ; 
From kisses which were pitiful ; from words 
Gentler than love's because compassionate ; 
From deep, unconscious sighs out of the heart 
Of her who loved me best, and from her tears 
That freest flowed when I was happiest. 
7 



146 KATHRINA. 

From frailest filaments of evidence, 

From dark allusions faintly overheard, 

From hint and look and sudden change of theme 

When I approached, from widely scattered words 

Remembered well, and gathered all at length 

Into consistent terms, I know not how 

1 wrought the full conclusion, nor how young. 

I only know that when a little child 

I learned, though no one told, that he who gave 

My life to me in madness took his own — 

Took it from fear of want, though he possessed 

The finest fortune in the rich old town. 



Thenceforth I had a secret which I kept- 
Kept by my mother with as close a tongue — 
A secret which embittered every cup. 
It bred rebellion in me — filled my soul. 
Opening to life in innocent delight, 
With baleful doubt and harrowing distrust. 
Why, if my father was the godly man 
His gentle widow vouched with tender tears, 
Did He to whom she bowed in daily prayer — 
Who loved us, as she told me, with a love 
Ineffable for strength and tenderness — 
Permit such fate to him, such woe to us ? 
Ah! many a time, repeating on my knees 
The simple language of my evening prayer 
Which her dear lips had taught me, came the dark 
Perplexing question, stirring in my heart 
A sense of guilt, or quenching all my faith. 
This, too, I kept a secret. I had died 
Rather than breathe the question in her ears 
Who knelt beside me. I had rather died 
Than add a sorrow to the load she bore. 



KATHRINA. 1 47 

Taught to be true, I played the hypocrite 

In truthfulness to her. I had no God, 

Nor penitence, nor loyalty nor love ; 

For any being higher than herself. 

Jealous of all to whom she gave her hand, 

I. clung to her with fond idolatry. 

I sat with her ; where'er she walked, I walked ; 

I kissed away her tears ; I strove to fill. 

With strange precocity of manly pride 

And more than boyish tenderness, the void 

Which death had made. 

I could not fail to see 
That ruth for me and sorrow for her loss — 
Twin leeches at her heart — were drinking blood 
That, from her pallid features, day by day 
Sank slowly down, to feed the cruel draught. 
Nay, more than this I saw, and sadly worse. 
Oft when I watched her and she knew it not, 
I marked a quivering horror sweep her face — 
A strange, quick thrill of pain— that brought her hand 
With sudden pressure to her heart, and forced 
To her white lips a swiftly whispered prayer. 
I fancied that I read the mystery ; 
But it was deeper and more terrible 
Than I conjectured. Not till darker years 
Came the solution. 

Still, we had some days 
Of pleasure. Sorrow cannot always brood 
Over the shivering forms that drink her warmth. 
But springs to meet the morning light, and soars 
Into the empyrean, to forget 
For one sweet hour the ring of greedy mouths 
That surely wait, and cry for her return. 



148 KATHRINA. 

My mother's hand in mine, or mine in hers, 
We often left the village far behind, 
And walked the meadow-paths to gather flowers, 
And watch the plowman as he turned the tilth, 
Or tossed his burnished share into the sun 
At the long furrow's end, the while we marked 
The tipsy bobolink, struggling with the chain 
Of tinkhng music that perplexed his wings, 
And listened to the yellow-breasted lark's 
Sweet whistle from the grass. 

Glad in my joy, 
My mother smiled amid these scenes and sounds, 
And wandered on with gentle step and slow, 
While I, in boyish frolic, ran before. 
Chasing the butterflies, or in her path 
Tossing the gaudy gold of buttercups. 
Till sometimes, ere we knew, we stood entranced 
Upon the river's marge. 

Ever the spell 
Of lapsing water tamed my playful mood, 
And 1 reclined in silent happiness 
At the tired feet that rested in the shade. 
There through the long, bright mornings we remained. 
Watching the noisy ferry-boat that plied 
Like a slow shuttle through the sunny warp 
Of threaded silver from a thousand brooks. 
That took new beauty as it wound away ; 
Or gazing where at Holyoke's verdant base — 
Like a shm hound, stretched at his master's feet- 
Lay the long, lazy hamlet, Hockanum ; 
Or, upward turning, traced the line that climbed 
O'er splintered rock and clustered foliage 
To the bare mountain-top ; then followed down 



KATHRINA. 149 

The scars of fire and storm, or paths of gloom 
That marked the curtained gorges, till, at last, 
Caught by a wisp of white, belated mist. 
Our vision rose to trace its airy flight 
Beyond the height, into the distant blue. 

One morning, while we rested there, she told 
Of a dear friend upon the other side — 
A lady who had loved her — whom she loved — 
And then she promised to my eager wish 
That soon, across the stream I longed to pass, 
1 should go with her to the lady's home. 

The wishedfor day came slowly — came at last — 
My birthday morning — rounding to their close 
The fourteen summers of my boyhood's life. 
The early mists were clinging to the side 
Of the dark mountain as we left the town. 
Though all the roadside fields were quick with toil. 
In rhythmic motion through the dewy grass 
The mowers swept, and on the fragrant air 
Was borne from far the soft, metallic clash 
Of stones upon the steel. 

This was the day 
*' So memorably wonderful and sweet 
Its power of inspiration lingers still, — 
So full of her dear presence, so divine 
With the melodious breathing of her words, 
And the warm radiance of her loving smile, 
That tears fall readily as April rain 
At its recall." And with this day there came 
The revelation and the genesis 
Of a new life. In intellect and heart 
I ceased to be a child, and grew a man. 



1 50 KATHRINA, 

By one long leap I passed the hidden bound 
That circumscribed my boyhood, and thenceforth 
Abjured all childish pleasure, and took on 
The purpose and the burden of my life. 



We crossed the river — I, as in a dream; 

And when I stood upon the eastern shore, 

In the full presence of the mountain pile, 

Strange tides of feeling thrilled me, and I wept — 

Wept, though I knew not why. I could have knelt 

On the white sand, and prayed. Within my soul 

Prophetic whispers breathed of coming power 

And new possessions. Aspiration swelled 

Like a pent stream within a narrow chasm, 

That finds nor vent nor overflow, but swirls 

And surges and retreats, until it floods 

The springs that feed it. All was chaos wild, — 

A chaos of fresh passion, undefined. 

Deep in whose vortices of mist and fire 

A new world waited blindly for its birth. 

I had no words for revelation ; — none 

For answer, when my mother pressed my hand, 

And questioned why it trembled. I looked up 

With tearful eyes, and met her loving smile, 

And both of us were silent, and passed on. 

We reached at length the pleasant cottage-home 
Where dwelt my mother's friend, and, at the gate, 
Found her with warmest welcome waiting us. 
She kissed my mother's cheek, and then kissed mine. 
Which shrank, and mantled with a new-born shame. 
They crossed the threshold : I remained without, 
Surprised — half-angry — with the burning blush 
That still o'erwhelmed my face. 



KATHRINA. 151 

I looked around 
For something to divert my vexing thoughts, 
And saw intently gazing in my eyes, 
From his long tether in the grass, a lamb — 
A lusty, downy, handsome, household pet. 
There was a scarlet ribbon on his neck 
Which held a silver bell, whose note I heard 
First when his eye met mine ; for then he sprang 
To greet me with a joyous bleat, and fell, 
Thrown by the cord that held him. Pitying him, 
I loosed his cruel leashing, with intent. 
After a half-hour's frolic, to return 
And fasten as I found him ; but my hand, 
Too careless of its charge, slipped from its hold 
With the first bound he made ; and with a leap 
He cleared the garden wall, and flew away. 

Affrighted at my deed and its mischance, 
I paused a moment — then with ready feet, 
And first and final impulse, I pursued. 

He held the pathway to the mountain woods, 

The tinkle of his bell already faint 

In the long distance he had placed between 

Himself and his pursuer. On and on, 

Climbing the mountain path, he sped away, 

I following swiftly, never losing sight 

Of the bright scarlet streaming from his neck. 

Or hearing of the tinkle of his bell, 

Till, wearied both, and panting up the steep, 

Our progress slackened to a walk. 

At length 
He paused and looked at me, and waited till 
My foot had touched the cord he dragged, and then 



152 KATHRINA. 

Bounded away, scaling the shelvy cliffs 

That bolder rose along the narrow path. 

He had no choice but mount. I pressed him close, 

And rocks and chasms were thick on either side. 

So, pausing oft, but ever leaping on 

Before my hand could reach him, he advanced. 

Not once in all the passage had I paused 

To look below, nor had I thought of her 

Whom I had left. Absorbed in the pursuit 

I pressed it recklessly, until I grasped 

My fleecy prisoner, wound and tied his cord 

Around my wrist, and both of us sank down 

Upon the mountain summit. 

In a swoon 
Of breathless weariness how long I lay 
I could not know ; but consciousness at last 
Came by my brute companion, who, alert 
Among the scanty browse, tugged at my wrist, 
And brought me startled to my feet. I saw 
In one swift sweep of vision where I stood, — 
In presence of what beauty of the earth. 
What glory of the sky, what majesty 
Of lofty loneliness. I drew the lamb — 
The dear, dumb creature — gently to my side, 
And led him out upon the beetling cliff 
That fronts the plaided meadows, and knelt down. 

When once the shrinking, dizzy spell was gone, 

I saw below me, like a jeweled cup. 

The valley hollowed to its heaven-kissed lip— « 

The serrate green against the serrate blue — 

Brimming with beauty's essence ; palpitant 

With a divine elixir — lucent floods 

Poured from the golden chalice of the sun. 



I 



KATHRINA. 153 

At which my spirit drank with conscious growth, 
And drank again with still expanding scope 
Of comprehension and of faculty. 

I felt the bud of being in me burst 

With full, unfolding petals to a rose, 

And fragrant breath that flooded all the scene. 

By sudden insight of myself I knew 

That I was greater than the scene, — that deep 

Within my nature was a wondrous world, 

Broader than that I gazed on, and informed 

With a diviner beauty, — that the things 

I saw were but the types of those I held, 

And that above them both. High Priest and King, 

I stood supreme, to choose and to combine, 

And build from that within me and without 

New forms of life, with meaning of my own. 

And there alone, upon the mountain-top. 

Kneeling beside the lamb, I bowed my head 

Beneath the chrismal light, and felt my soul 

Baptized and set apart to poetry. 

The spell of inspiration lingered not ; 
But ere it passed, I knew my destiny — 
The passion and the portion of my life : 
Though, with the new-born consciousness of power 
And organizing and creative skill. 
There came a sense of poverty — a sense 
Of power untrained, of skill without resource, 
Of ignorance of Nature and her laws 
And language and the learning of the schools. 
I could not rise upon my callow wings. 
But felt that I must wait until the years 
Should give them plumage, and the skill for flight 
Be won by trial. 
7* 



J 54 KATHRTNA. 

Then before me rose 
The long, long years of study, interposed 
Between me and the goal that shone afar ; 
But with them rose the courage to surmount, 
And I was girt for toil. 

Then, for the first, 
My eye and spirit that had drunk the whole 
Wide vision, grew discriminate, and traced 
The crystal river pouring from the North 
Its twinkling tide, and winding down the vale, 
Till, doubling in a serpent coil, it paused 
Before the chasm that parts the frontal spurs 
Of Tom and Holyoke ; then in wreathing light 
Sped the swart rocks, and sought the misty South. 
Across the meadows — carpet for the gods. 
Woven of ripening rye and greening maize 
And rosy clover-blooms, and spotted o'er 
With the black shadows of the feathery elms — 
Northampton rose, half hidden in her trees, 
Lifted above the level of the fields. 
And noiseless as a picture. 

At my feet 
The ferry-boat, diminished to a toy, 
"With automatic diligence conveyed 
Its puppet passengers between the shores 
That hemmed its enterprise ; and one low barge, 
With white, square sail, bore northward languidly 
The slow and scanty commerce of the stream. 

Eastward, upon another fertile stretch 
Of meadow-sward and tilth, embowered in elms. 
Lay the twin, streets, and sprang the single spire 
Of Hadley, where the hunted regicides 



KATHRINA. 1 55 

Securely lived of old, and strangely died ; 
And eastward still, upon the last green step 
From which the Angel of the Morning Light 
Leaps to the meadow-lands, fair Amherst sat, 
Capped by her many-windowed colleges ; 
While from his outpost in the rising North, 
Bald with the storms and ruddy with the suns 
Of the long eons, stood old Sugarloaf, 
Gazing with changeless brow upon a scene. 
Changing to fairer beauty evermore. 

Save of the river and my pleasant home, 

I knew not then the names and history 

Borne by these visions ; but upon my brain 

Their forms were graved in lines indelible 

As, on the rocks beneath my feet, the prints 

Of life in its first motion. Later years 

Renewed the picture, and its outlines filled 

With fair associations, — wrought the past 

And living present into fadeless wreaths 

That crowned each mound and mount, and town and tower, 

The king of teeming memories. Nor could 

I guess with faintest foresight of the life 

Which, in the years before me, I should weave 

Of mingled threads of pleasure and of pain 

Into these scenes, until not one of all 

Could meet my eye, or touch my memory, 

Without recalling an experience 

That drank the sweetest ichor of my veins, 

Or crowded them with joy. 

At length I turned 
From the wide survey, and with pleased surprise 
Detected, nestling at the mountain's foot, 
The cottage I had left ; and, on the lawn, 



T $6 KATHRINA. 

Two forms of life that flitted to and fro. 
I knew that they had missed me ; so I sought 
The passage I had chmbed, and, with the lamb 
Still fastened to my wrist, I hasted down. 

Full of the marvels of the hour I sped, 

Leaping from rock to rock, or flying swift 

The smoother slopes, with arms half wings, and feet 

That only guarded the descent, the while 

My captive led me captive at his will. 

So tense the strain of sinew, so intense 

The mood and motion, that before I guessed, 

The headlong flight was finished, and I walked, 

Jaded and reeking, in the level path 

That led the lambkin home. 

My mother saw. 
And ran to meet me : then for long, still hours, 
Couched in a dim, cool room, I lay and slept. 
When I awoke, I found her at my side, 
Fanning my face, and ready with her smile 
And soothing words to greet me. Then I told, 
With youthful volubility and wild 
Extravagance of figure and of phrase, 
The morning's exploit. 

First she questioned me ; 
But, as I wrought each scene and circumstance 
Into consistent form, she drank my words 
In eager silence ; and within her eyes 
I saw the glow of pride which gravity 
And show of deep concern could not disguise. 
I read her bosom better than she knew. 
I saw that she had made discovery 
Of something unsuspected in her child, 



KATHRINA. 157 

And that, by one I loved, and she the best, 
The fire that burned within me and the power 
That morning called to life, were recognized. 

When I had told my story, and had read 

With kindling pride my praises in her eyes. 

She placed her soft hand on my brow, and said : 

" My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain height 

In all his little world, and gazed on scenes 

As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. 

1 trust he will remember all his life 

That to his best achievement, and the spot 

Nearest to heaven his youthful feet have trod. 

He has been guided by a guileless lamb. 

It is an omen which his mother's heart 

Will treasure with her jewels." 

When the sun 
Of the long summer day hung but an hour 
Above his setting, and the cool West Wind 
Bore from the purpling hills his benison. 
The farewell courtesies of love were given. 
And we set forth for home. 

Not far we fared — 
The river left behind — when, looking back, 
I saw the mountain in the searching light 
Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride 
In my adventure, I can ne'er forget 
The disappointment and chagrin which fell 
Upon me ; for a change had passed. The steep 
Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun, 
Had left the scene ; and in its place I saw 
A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed. 
Whose proudest height my humble feet\had ti:od. 



158 KATHRINA. 

Its grand impossibilities and all 
Its store of marvels and of mysteries 
Were flown away, and would not be recalled. 
The mountain's might had entered into me ; 
And, from that fruitful hour, whatever scene 
Nature revealed to me, she never caught 
My spirit humbled by surprise. My thought 
Built higher mountains than I ever found ; 
Poured wilder cataracts than I ever saw ; 
Drove grander storms than ever swept the sky ; 
Pushed into loftier heavens and lower hells 
Than the abysmal reach of light and dark ; 
And entertained me with diviner feasts 
Than ever met the appetite of sense, 
And poured me wine of choicer vintages 
Than fire the hearts of kings. 

The frolic-flame 
Which in the morning kindled in my veins 
Had died away ; and at my mother's side 
I walked in quiet mood, and gravely spoke 
Of the great future. With a tender quest 
My mother probed my secret wish, and heard, 
With silence new and strange respectfulness, 
The revelation of my plans. I felt 
In her benign attention to my words ; 
In her suggestions, clothed with gracious phrase 
To win my judgment ; and in all those shades 
Of mien and manner which a mother's love 
Inspires so quickly, when the form it nursed 
Becomes a staff in its caressing hand, 
She had made space for me, and placed her Ufa 
In new relations to my own. I knew 
That she who through my span of tender years 
Had counseled me, had given me privilege 



KATIIRINA 159 

Within her councils ; and the moment came 
I learned that in the converse of that hour, 
The appetency of maternity 
For manhood in its offspring, had laid hold 
Of the fresh growth in me, and feasted well 
Its gentle passion. 

Ere we reached our home. 
The plans for study were matured, and I, 
Who, with an aptitude beyond my years, 
Had gathered learning's humbler rudiments 
From her to whom I owed my earliest words, 
Was, when another day should rise, to pass 
To rougher teaching, and society 
Of the rude youth whose wild and boisterous ways 
Had scared my childish life. 

I nerved my heart 
To meet the change ; and all the troubled night 
I tossed upon my pillow, filled with fears. 
Or fired with hot ambitions ; shrinking oft 
With girlish sensitiveness from the lot 
My manly heart had chosen ; rising oft 
Above my cowardice, well panoplied 
By fancy to achieve great victories 
O'er those whose fellows I should be. 

At last 
The dawn looked in upon me, and I rose 
To meet its golden coming, and the life 
Of golden promise whose wide-open doors 
Waited my feet. 

The lingering morning hours 
Seemed days of painful waiting, as they fell 



l6o KATHRINA. 

In slowly filling numbers from the tower 

Of the old village church ; but when, at length, 

My eager feet had touched the street, and turned 

To climb the goodly eminence where he 

In whose profound and stately pages live 

His country's annals, ruled his youthful realm, 

My heart grew stern and strong ; and nevermore 

Did doubt of excellence and mastery 

Drag down my soaring courage, or disturb 

My purposes and plans. 

What boots it here 
To tell with careful chronicle the life 
Of my novitiate ? Up the graded months 
My feet rose slowly, but with steady step, 
To tall and stalwart manliness of frame. 
And ever rising and expanding reach 
Of intellection and the power to call 
Forth from the pregnant nothingness of words 
The sphered creations of my chosen art. 
What boots it to recount my victories 
Over my fellows, or to tell how all. 
Contemptuous at first, became at length 
Confessed inferiors in every strife 
When brain or brawn contended ? Victories 
Were won too easily to bring me pride. 
And only bred contempt of the low pitch 
And lower purpose of the power which strove 
So feebly and so clumsily. When won, 
They fed my mother's passion, and she praised ; 
And her delight was all the boon they brought. 
My fierce ambition, ever reaching up 
To higher fields and nobler combatants, 
Trampled its triumphs underneath its feet ; 
And in my heart of hearts I pitied her 



KATHRINA. l6l 

To whose deep hunger of maternal pride 
They bore ambrosial ministry. 

In all 

These years of doing and development, 

My heart was haunted by a bitter pain. 

In every scene of pleasure, every hour 

That lacked employment, every moment's lull 

Of toil or study, its familiar hand 

Was raised aloft, to smite me with its pang. 

From month to month, from year to year, I saw 

That she who bore me, and to whom I owed 

The meek and loyal reverence of a child, 

Was changing places with me, and that she — 

Dependent, trustful and subordinate — 

Deferred to me in all things, and in all 

Gave me the parent's place and took the child's. 

She waited for my coming like a child ; 

She ran to meet and greet me like a child ; 

She leaned on me for guidance and defense, 

And lived in me, and by me, like a child. 

If I were absent long beyond my wont. 

She yielded to distresses and to tears ; 

And when I came, she flew into my arms 

With childish impulse of delight, or chid 

With weak complainings my delay. 

By these, 
And by a thousand other childish ways, 
1 knew disease was busy with her life, 
Working distempers in her heart and brain, 
And driving her for succor to my strength. 
The change was great in her, though slowly wrought, — 
Though wrought so slowly that my thought and life 
Had been adjusted to it, but for this : — 



1 62 KATHRINA. 

One dismal night, a trivial accident 

Had kept me from my home beyond the hour 

At which my promise stood for my return. 

Arriving at the garden gate, I paused 

To catch a ghmpse of the accustomed hght, 

Through the cold mist that v^^rapped me, but in vain. 

Only one w^indow glimmered through the gloom. 

Through whose uncurtained panes I dimly saw 

My mother in her chamber. She was clad 

In the white robe of rest ; but to and fro 

She crossed the light, sometimes with hands pressed close 

Upon her brow, sometimes raised up toward heaven, 

As if in deprecation or despair ; 

And through the strident soughing of the elm 

I heard her voice, still musical in woe, 

Wailing and calling. 

With a noiseless step 
I reached the door, and, with a noiseless key. 
Turned back the bolt, and stood within. I could 
Have called her to my arms, and quelled her fears 
By one dear word, and yet, I spoke it not. 
I longed to learn her secret, and to know 
In what recess of history or heart 
It hid, and wrought her awful malady. 

Not long I waited, when I heard her voice 
Wail out again in wild, beseeching prayer, — 
Her voice so sweet and soulful, that it seemed 
As if a listening fiend could not refuse 
Such help as in him lay, although her tongue ^ 
Should falter to articulate her pain. 

I heard her voice — O God ! I heard her words ! 
Not bolts of burning from the vengeful sky 



KATHKINA. 1 63 

Had scathed or stunned me more. 1 shook like one 

Powerless within the toils of some great sin, 

Or some o'ermastering passion ; or like one 

Whose veins turn ice at onset of the plague. 

"O God," she said, ''my Father and my Friend! 

Spare him to me, and save me from myself! 

O ! if thou help me not — if thou forsake — 

This hand which thou hast made, will take the life 

Thou mad'st the hand to feed. I cling to him, 

My son, — my boy. If danger come to him, 

No one is left to save me from this crime. 

Thou knowest, O ! my God, how I have striven 

To quench the awful impulse ; how, in vain, 

My prayers have gone before thee, for release 

From the foul demon who would drive my soul 

To crime that leaves no space for penitence ! 

! Father ! Father ! Hear me when I call ! 
Hast thou not made me ? Am I not thy child ? 
Why, why this mad, mysterious desire 

To follow him I loved, by the dark door 
Through which he forced his passage to the realm 
That death throws wide to all? O why must I, 
A poor, weak woman — " 

I could hear no more, 
But dropped my dripping cloak, and, with a voice, 
Toned to its tenderest cadence, 1 pronounced 
The sweet word, '' mother! " 

Her excess of joy 
Burst in a cry, and in a moment's space 

1 sat within her room, and she, my child. 
Was sobbing in my arms. I spoke no word, 
But sat distracted with my tenderness 

For her who threw herself upon my heart 



1 64 KATHRINA. 

In perfect trust, and bitter thoughts of Him . 
Whose succor, though importunately sought 
In piteous pleadings by a gentle saint, 
Was grudgingly withheld. Her closing words : 
" O why must I, a poor, weak woman — " rang 
Through every chamber of my tortured soul. 
And called to conclave and rebellion all 
The black-browed passions thitherto restrained. 

Ay, why should she, who only sought for God, 

Be given to a devil ? Why should she 

Who begged for bread be answered with a stone? 

Ay, why should she whose soul recoiled from sin 

As from a fiend, find in her heart a fiend 

To urge the sin she hated ? — questions all 

The fiends within me answered as they would. 

God ! O Father ! How I hated thee ! 
Nay, how within my angry soul I dared 
To curse thy sacred name ! 

Then other thoughts — 
Thoughts of myself and of my destiny — 
Succeeded. Who and what was I ? A youth, 
Doomed by hereditary taint to crime, — 
A youth whose every artery and vein 
Was doubly charged with suicidal blood. 
When the full consciousness of what I was 
Possessed my thought, and I gazed down the abyss 
God had prepared for me, I shrank aghast ; 
And there in silence, with an awful oath 

1 dare not write, I swore my will was mine, 

And mine my hand ; and that, though all the fiends 
That cumber hell and overrun the earth 
Should spur the deadly impulse of my blood, 
And heaven withhold the aid I would not ask ; 



KATHRINA. 165 

Though woes unnumbered should beset my life, 

And reason fall, and uttermost despair 

Hold me a hopeless prisoner in its glooms, 

I would resist and conquer, and live out 

My complement of years. My bosom burned 

With fierce defiance, and the angry blood 

Leaped from my heart, and boomed within my brain 

With throbs that stunned me, though each fiery thrill 

Was charged with tenderness for her whose head 

Was pillowed on its riot. 

Long I sat — 
How long, I know not — but at last the sad, 
Hysteric sobs and suspirations ceased, 
Or only at wide intervals recurred ; 
And then I rose, and to her waiting bed 
Led my doomed mother. With a cheerful voice — 
Cheerful as I could summon — and a kiss, 
I bade her a good night and pleasant dreams ; 
And then, across the hall, I sought my room 
Where neither sleep .nor dream awaited me, 
But only blasphemous, black thoughts, and strife 
With God and Destiny. 

I saw it all : 
The lamp that from my mother's window beamed, 
Illumined other nights and other storms. 
And by its lurid light revealed to me 
The secrets of a life. Her sudden pangs. 
Her brooding woes, her terrors when alone, 
The strange surrender of her will to mine, 
Her hunger for my presence, and her fear 
That by some slip of fortune she should lose 
Her hold on me, were followed to their home — 
To her poor heart, that fluttered every hour 



1 66 KATHRINA. 

With conscious presence of an enemy 

That would not be expelled, and strove to spill 

The life it spoiled. 

From that eventful night 
She was not left alone. I called a friend, 
A cheerful lady, whose companionship 
Was music, medicine and rest ; and she. 
Wanting a home, and with a ready wit 
Learning my mother's need and my desire, 
Assumed the place of matron in the house ; 
And, in return for what we gave to her, 
Gave us herself. 

My mother's confidence. 
By her self-confidence, she quickly won ; 
And thus, though sadly burdened at my heart, 
I found one burden lifted from my hands. 
More liberty of movement and of toil 
I needed ; for the time was drawing near 
When I should turn my feet toward other halls, 
To seek maturer study, and complete 
The work of culture faithfully begun. 

Into my mother's ear I breathed my plans 
With careful words. The university 
Was but a short remove — a morning's walk — 
Away from her ; and ever at her wish — 
Nay, always when I could — I would return ; _^ 
And separation would but sweeten love, 
And joy of meeting recompense the pain 
Of parting and of absence. 

She was calm, 
And leaning in her thought upon her friend, 



KATIIRINA. 167 

Gave her consent. So, on a summer day, 
I kissed her faded cheek, and turned from home 
To seek the college halls that I had seen 
From boyhood's mount of vision. 

Of the years 
Passed there in study — of the rivalries, 
The long; stern struggles for pre-eminence, 
The triumphs hardly won, but won at last 
Beyond all cavil, matters not to tell. 
It was my grief that while I gained and grew, 
My mother languished momently, and lost, — 
A grief that turned to poison in my blood. 
The college prayers were mummeries to me, 
And with disdainful passion I repelled 
All Christian questionings of heart and life, 
By old and young. 

I stood, I moved alone. 
I sought no favors, took no courtesies 
With grateful grace, and nursed my haughty pride. 
The men who kneeled and gloomed, and prayed and 

sang, 
Seemed but a brood of dullards, whom contempt 
Would honor overmuch. No tender spot 
Was left within my indurated heart, 
Save that which moved with ever-melting ruth 
For her whose breast had nursed me, and whose love 
Had given my life the only happiness 
It yet had known. 

With her I kept my pledge 
With more than faithful punctuality. 
Few weeks passed by in all those busy years 
In which I did not walk the way between 



1 68 KATHRINA. 

The college and my home, and bear to her 

Such consolation as my presence gave. 

In truth, my form was as familiar grown 

To all the rustic dwellers on the road j 

As I had been a post-boy. 

Little joy 
These visits won for me — little beyond 
That which I found in bearing joy to her — 
For every year marked on her slender frame, 
And on her cheeks, and on her failing brain, 
Its record of decadence. I could see 
That she was sinking into helplessness, 
And that too soon her inoffensive soul, 
With all its sweet affections, would go down 
To hopeless wreck and darkness. 

From her friend , 

I learned that still the burden of her prayer |tt 

Was, that she might be saved from one great sin — 
The sin of self-destruction. Every hour 
This one petition struggled from her heart, 
To reach the ear of heaven ; yet never help 
Came down in answer to her cry. 

The Spring 
That ushered in my closing college-year 
Came up the valley on her balmy wings, 
And Winter fled away, and left no trace. 
Save here and there a snowy drift, to show 
Where his cold feet had rested in their flight. 
But one still night, within the span of sleep, 
A shivering winter cloud that wandered late 
Shook to the frosty ground its inch of rime. 
So, when the moramg rose, the earth was white ; 



KATHRINA. 169 

And shrubs and trees, and roofs and rocks and walls, 
Fulgent with downy crystals, made a world 
To which a breath were ruin ; and a breath 
Wrecked it for me, and, by a few sad words, 
Blotted the sunlit splendor from my sight. 

As I looked out upon the scene, and mused 
Of her to whom I hoped it might impart 
Some healthy touch of joy, I heard the beat 
Of hoofs upon the trackless blank, and saw 
A horseman speeding up the avenue. 
I raised my sash (1 knew he came for me), 
And faltered forth my question. From his breast 
He drew a folded shp : dismounting then, 
He stooped and pressed the missive in a mass 
Of clinging snow, and tossed it to my hand. 
I closed the window, burst the frosty seal. 
And read : " Your mother cannot long survive : 
Come home to her to-day." I did not pause 
To break the fast of night, but rushing forth, 
I followed close the messenger's return. 

It was a morning, such as comes but once 
In all the Spring, — so still and beautiful. 
So full of promise, so exhilarant 
With frost and fire, in earth and air, that life 
Had been a brimming joy but for the scene 
That waited for my eyes — the scene of death — 
From which imagination staggered back. 
And every sensibility recoiled. 

The smoke from distant sugar-camps rolled up 
Through the still ether in columnar coils — 
Blue pillars of a bluer dome — and all 
The resonant air was full of sounds of Spring. 
8 



I/O KATHRINA. 

The sheep were bleating round their empty ricks ; 

Horses let loose were calling from afar, 

And winning fierce replies ; the axman's blows 

Fell nimbly at the piles which wintry woods 

Had lent to summer stores ; while far and faint, 

The rhythmic ululations of the hound 

On a fresh trail, upon the mountain's side, 

Added their strange wild music to the morn. 

The beauty and the music caught my sense, 
But woke within my sick and sinking heart 
No motion of response. I walked as one 
Condemned to dungeon -glooms might walk 
Through shouts of mirth and festal pageantry, 
Hearing and seeing all, yet over all 
Hearing the clank of chains and clash of bars, 
And seeing but the reptiles of his cell. 

How I arrived at home, without fatigue, 
Without a thought of effort— onward borne 
By one absorbing and impelling thought — 
As one within a minute's mete may slide, 
O'er leagues of sunny dreamland in a dream, 
By magic or by miracle — I found 
No time to question. 

At my mother's door 
I stood and listened : soon I heard my name 
Pronounced within in spiteful whisperings. 
I raised the latch, and met her burning eyes. 
She stared a wild, mad stare, then raised herself. 
And in weak fury poured upon my head 
The vials of her wrath. I stood like stone, 
Without the power to speak, the while she rained 
Her maledictions on me, and in words 



KATHRINA. 171 

Fit only for the damned, accused my life 

Of crimes my language could not name, and deeds 

Which only outcast wretches know. 

At length, 
I gained my tongue, and tried to take her hand ; 
But with a shriek which cut me like a knife 
She shrank from me, and hid her quivering face 
Within her pillow. 

Then I turned away, 
And sought the room where oft in better days 
We both had knelt together at my bed. 
And, making fast my door, I threw myself 
Prone on the precious couch, and gave to grief 
My strong and stormy nature. All the day 
With bursts of passion I bewailed my loss. 
Or lay benumbed in feeling and in thought, 
Tasting no food, and shutting out my soul 
From all approach of human sympathy, 
Till the light waned, and through the leafless boughs 
Of the old elm I caught the sheen of stars. 

Then sleep descended — such a sleep as comes 
To uttermost exhaustion, — sleep with dreams 
Wild as the waking fantasies of her 
Whose screams and incoherent words gave voice 
To all their phantom brood. 

At length I woke. 
The house was still as death ; and yet I heard, 
Or thought I heard, the touch of crafty feet 
Upon the carpet, creeping by my door. 
It passed away, away ; and then a pause. 
Still and presageful as the breathless calm 



172 KATHRINA. 

On which the storm-cloud mounts the pallid West, 
Succeeded. I could hear the parlor-clock 
Counting the beaded silence, and my bed, 
Rustling beneath my breathing and my pulse, 
Was sharply crepitant, and gave me pain. 



An hour passed by (it loitered like an age), 

And then came hurried words and hasty fall 

Of footsteps in the passage. I could hear 

Screams, sobs, and whispered calls and closing doors, 

And heavy feet that jarred my bed, and shook 

The windows of my room. I did not stir : 

I dared not stir, but lay in deathly dread, 

Waiting the sad denouement. Soon it came. 

A man approached my door, and tried the latch ; 

Then knocked, and called. I knew the kindly voice 

Of the physician, and threw back the bolt. 

Then by the light he held before his face 

I read the fact of death. 



I took his arm, 
And, as I feebly staggered down the stairs, 
He broke to me with lack of useless words ' 
The awful truth. . . . The old familiar tale : 
She counterfeited sleep : the nurses both, 
W'eary with over- watching in their chairs. 
Under the cumbrous stillness, slept indeed ; 
And when she knew it, she escaped ; and then 
She did the deed to which for many years 
She had been predisposed. Perhaps I knew 
The nature of the case : perhaps I knew 
My father went that way. I clutched his arm : 
There was no need of words. 



KATHRINA. 175 

The parlor door 
Stood open, and a throng of silent friends, 
Choking with tears, gazed on a silent form 
Shrouded in snowy linen. They made way 
For me and my companion. On my knees 
I clasped the precious clay, and pouring forth 
My pitying love and tenderness for her, 
I gave indignant voice to my complaint 
Against the Being who, to all her prayers 
For succor and security, had turned 
A deaf, dead ear and a repelling hand. 

To what blaspheming utterance I gave 

My raving passion, may the God I cursed 

Forbid my shrinking memory to recall ! 

I now remember only that when drawn 

By strong, determined hands away from her, 

The room was vacant. Every pitying friend 

Had flown my presence and the room, to find 

Release of sensibility from vv^ords 

That roused their superstitious souls to fear 

That God would smite me through the blinding smoke 

Of my great torment. 

Silence, for the rest ! 
It was a dream ; and only as a dream 
Do I remember it : the coffined form, 
The funeral— a concourse of the town — 
The trembling prayer for me, the choking sobs, 
The long procession, the descending clods, 
The slow return, articulated all 
With wild, mad words of mine, and gentle speech 
Of those who sought to curb or comfort me — 
All was a dream, from which I woke at length 
With heart as dead as her's who slept. The heavens 



174 KATHRINA. 

Were brass above me, and the breathing world 

Was void and meaningless. When told to pray, 

This was the logic of my heart's reply : 

If God be Love, not such is He to me 

Nor such to mine. If He heard not the voice 

Of such a lovely saint as she I mourned, 

Mine would but rouse His vengeance. 

So I closed 
With Reason's hand the adamantine doors 
Which only Faith unlocks, and shut my soul 
Away from God, the warder of a gang 
Of passions that in darkness stormed or gloomed ; 
And with each other fought, or on themselves 
Gnawed for the nourishment which I denied. 



COMPLAINT. 

River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with thee : 
River, thou dost never give a word of peace to me ! 
Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimpling to each air 

that blows, 
Thou dost make no sweet replying to my sighing for repose. 

Flowers of mount and meadow, I have fault to find with you ; 
So the breezes cross and toss you, so your cups are filled 

with dew, , 

Matters not though sighs give motion to the ocean of your 

breath ; 
Matters not though you are filling with the chilling drops 

of death ! 

Birds of song and beauty, lo ! I charge you all with 

blame : — 
Though all hapless passions thrill and fill me, you are still 

the same. 
I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that avails 
From your lonely note, that only speaks of joy that never 

fails. 

O ! indifference of Nature to the fact of human pain ! 
Every grief that seeks relief entreats it at her hand in vain ; 
Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a river seeks the sea, 
Nor a flower from wreaths of Summer breathes in sym- 
pathy with me. 



1/6 KATHRINA. 

O ! the rigid rock is frigid, though its bed be summer mould, 
And the diamond gHtters ever in the grasp of changeless 

gold; 
And the laws that bring the seasons swing their cycles as 

they must. 
Though the ample road they trample blind the eyes with 

human dust. 



Moons will wax in argent glory, though man wane to hope- 
less gloom ; 

Stars will sparkle in their splendor, though he darkle to 
his doom ; 

Winds of heaven he calls to fan him ban him with an icy 
chill, 

And the shifting crowds of clouds go drifting o'er him as 
they will. 



Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone, 
That by law of prime relation holds these voices as its 

own, — 
The full tonic whose harmonic grandeurs rise througli 

Nature's words, 
From the ocean's thundrous rolling to the trolling of the 

birds. 



Spirit, O ! my spirit ! Is it thou art out of tune ? 

Art thou clinging to December while the earth is in its 

June ? 
Hast thou dropped thy part in nature ? Hast thou touched 

another key ? 
Art thou angry that the anthem will not, cannot, wait for 

thee? 



KATHRINA. 177 

Spirit, thou art left alone — alone on waters wild ; 

For God is gone, and Love is dead, and Nature spurns 

her child. 
Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below and clouds above, 
And with weary wings come back to thee, thy raven and 

thy dove. 
8* 



PART II. 

LOVE. 

As from a deep, dead sea, by drastic lift 

Of pent volcanic fires, the dripping form 

Of a new island swells to meet the air, 

And, after months of idle basking, feels 

The prickly feet of life from countless germs 

Creeping along its sides, and reaching up 

In fern and flower to the life-giving sun, 

So from my grief I rose, and so at length 

I felt new life returning : so I felt 

The life already wakened stretching forth 

To stronger light and purer atmosphere. 

But most I longed for human love — the source 

(So sadly closed), from which my life had drawn 

Its sweetest inspiration and reward. 

I could not pray, nor could my spirit win 

From sights and sounds of nature the response 

It vaguely yearned for. They assailed my sense 

With senseless seeming of the hum and whirl 

Of vast machinery, whose motive power 

Sought its own ends, or wrought for ministry 

To other life than mine. 

I could stand still. 
And see the trains sweep by ; could hear the roar 
Of thundering wheels ; could watch the pearly plumes 



l8o KATHRINA. 

That floated where they flew ; could catch a glimpse 
Of thousand happy faces at the glass ; 
But felt that all their freighted life and wealth 
Were nought to me, and moved toward other souls 
In other latitudes. 

A year had flown, 
And more, when, on a Sunday morn in June, 
I wandered out, to wear away the hours 
Of growing restlessness. The worshipers 
Were thronging to the service of the day, 
And gave me sidelong stare, or shunned me quite ; 
As if they knew me for a reprobate. 
And feared a taint of death. 

I took the road 
That eastward cleft the town, and sought the bridge 
That spanned the river, reaching which I crossed. 
Then deep within the stripes of springing corn 
I found the shadow of an elm, and lay 
Stretched on the downy grass for listless hours, 
Dreaming of days gone by, or turning o'er 
With careless hand the pages of a book 
I had brought with me. 

Tired at length I rose. 
And, touched by some light impulse, moved along 
The old, familiar road. I loitered on 
In a blind revery, nor marked the while 
The furlongs or the time, until the spell 
In a full burst of music was dissolved. 
I startled as one startles from a dream. 
And saw the church of Hadley, from whose doors, 
Open to summer air, the choral hymn 
Poured out its measured tides, and rose and fell 



KATHRINA. l8l 

Upon the silence in broad cadences, 
As from a far, careering sea, the waves 
Lift into silver swells the sleeping breasts 
Of land-locked bays. 

I heard the sound of flutes 
And hoarse, sonorous viols, in accord 
With happy human voices, — and one voice — 
A woman's or an angel's — that compelled 
My feet to swift approach. A thread of gold, 
Through all the web of sound, I followed it 
Till, by the stress of some strange sympathy, 
And by no act of will, I joined my voice 
To that one voice of melody, and sang. 

The heart is wiser than the intellect, 

And works with swifter hands and surer feet 

Toward wise conclusions. So, without resort 

To reason, in my heart I knew that she 

Who sang had suffered — knew that she had grieved, 

Had hungered, struggled, kissed the cheek of death, 

And ranged the scale of passions till her soul 

Was deep, and wide, and soft with sympathy ; — 

Nay, more than this : that she had found at last 

Peace like a river, on whose waveless tide 

She floated while she sang. This was the key 

That loosed my prisoned voice, and filled my eyes 

With tender tears, and touched to life again 

My better nature. 

When the choral closed, 
And the last chord in silence lapsed away, 
I raised my eyes, and, nodding to the beck 
Of the old, slippered sexton, I went in, — 
Not (shall it be confessed ?) to find the God 



1 82 KATHRINA. 

At whose plain altar bowed the rural throng ; 
But, through a voice, to follow to its source 
The influence that moved me. 

I was late; 
And many eyes looked up as I advanced 
Through the broad aisle, and took a seat that turned 
My face to all the faces in the house. 
I scanned the simpering girls within the choir^ 
But found not what I sought ; and then my eyes 
With rambling inquisition swept the pews, 
Pausing at every maiden face in vain. 
One head, that crowned a tall and slender form, 
Was bowed with reverent grace upon the rail 
Before her ; and, although I caught no glimpse 
Of her sweet face, I knew such face was there, 
And there the voice. 

It was Communion Day. 
The simple table underneath the desk 
Was draped with linen, on whose snow was spread 
The feast of love — the vases filled with wine, 
The separated bread and circling cups. 
The venerable pastor had come down 
From his high pulpit, and assumed the seat 
Of presidence, and, with benignant eyes. 
Sat smiling on his flock. The deacons all 
Rose from their pews — four old, brown-handed men. 
With frosty hair— and took the ancient chairs 
That flanked the table. All the house was still 
Save here and there the rustle of a silk 
Or folding of a fan ; and over all 
Brooded the dove of peace. J had no part 
In the fair spectacle, but I could feel 
That it was beautiful and sweet as heaven. 



KATHRINA. 1 83 

When the old pastor rose, with solemn mien, 
I looked to see the lady lift her head ; 
But still she bowed ; and then I heard these words : 
'^ The person who unites with us to-day- 
Will take her place before me in the aisle. 
To give her answer to our creed, and speak 
The pledges of our covenant." 

Then first 
I saw her face. With modest grace she rose, 
Lifted her hat, and gave it to the hand 
Of a companion, and within the aisle 
Stood out alone. My heart beat thick and fast 
With vision of her perfect loveliness. 
And apprehension of the heroism 
That shone within her eyes, and made her act 
A Christ-like sacrifice. 

O ! eyes of blue ! 
O ! lily throat and cheeks of faintest rose ! 
O ! brow serene, enthroned in holy thought ! 

! soft, brown sweeps of hair ! O ! shapely grace 
Of maidenhood, enrobed in virgin white ! 

Why, in your rapt unconsciousness of me 
And all around you — in the presence-hall 
Of God and angels — at the marriage-feast 
Of Jesus and his chosen — did my eyes 
Profane the hour with other feast than yours? 

1 heard the "You Believe" of the old creed 
Of puritan New England ; and I heard 

The old " You Promise " of its covenant. 
Her bow of reverent assent to all 
The knotty dogmas, and her silent pledge 
Of faithfulness and fellowship, I saw. 



1 84 KATHRINA. 

These formularies were the frame of oak — 
Gnarled, strongly carved, and swart with age and use- 
Which held the lovely picture of my saint. 
And showed her saintliness and beauty well. 

At close of the recital and response, 

The pastor raised the plain, baptismal bowl, 

And she, the maiden devotee, advanced 

And knelt before him. Lifting then her eyes 

To him and heaven, with look of earnest faith 

And perfect consecration, she received 

Upon her brow the water from his hand. 

The trickling chrism shone on her cheeks like tears, 

The while he joined her lovely name with God's : 

" KATHRINA, I BAPTIZE THEE IN THE NAME 

Of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen!" 

Still kneeling like a saint before a shrine. 

She closed her eyes. Then lifting up toward heaven 

His hands, the pastor prayed, — prayed that her soul 

Might be forever kept from stain and sin ; 

That Christ might live in her, and through her life 

Shine into other souls ; might give her strength 

To master all temptation, and to keep 

The vows that day assumed ; might comfort her 

In every sorrow, and, in death's dread hour, 

Bear her in hopeful triumph to the rest 

Prepared for those who love him. 

All this scene 
I saw through blinding tears. The poetry 
That like a soft aureola embraced 
Within its cope those two contrasted forms ; 
The eager observation and the hush 



KATHRINA. 1 85 

That reigned through all the house ; the breathless spell 

Of sweet solemnity and tender awe 

Which held all hearts, when she, The Beautiful, 

Received the sign of marriage to The Good, 

O'erwhelmed me, and I wept. Shall I confess 

That in the struggle to repress my tears 

And hold my swelling heart, I grudged her gift, 

And felt that, by the measure she had risen, 

She had put space between herself and me, 

And quenched my hope ? 



She stood while courtesy 
Of formal Christian welcome was bestowed ; 
Then straightway sought her seat, as though no eyes 
Bat those of One unseen observed her steps. 
I saw her taste the sacramental bread, 
And touch the silver chalice to her lips ; 
And while she thought of Him, The Spotless One 
Whose flesh and blood were symboled to her heart, 
And worshiped in her thought, I ate and drank 
Her virgin beauty — with what guilty sense 
Of profanation ! 



Last, the closing hymn 
Gave me her voice again ; and this I drank ; 
Nay, this invaded and pervaded me. 
Its subtile search found out the sleeping chords 
Of sympathy ; and on the bridge of sound 
It built between our souls, I crossed, and saw 
Into the depths of purity and love — 
The full, pathetic power of womanhood — 
From which the structure sprang. Just once 
I caught her eyes. She blushed with consciousness 



1 86 KATHRINA. 

Of my strong gaze ; but paused not in her hymn 
Till she had given to every word the wings 
That bore it, like a singing bird, toward heaven. 

The benediction fell ; and then the throng 

Passed slowly out. I was the last to go. 

I saw a man whom I had known, and shrank 

Both from his greetings and his questionings. 

One thing I learned : that she who thus had joined 

This cluster of disciples was not born 

And reared among their number : that was plain. 

I saw it in her bearing and her dress ; 

In that unconsciousness of self that comes 

Of gentle breeding, and society 

Of gentle men and women ; in the ease 

With which she bore the awkward deference 

Of those who spoke with her adown the aisle ; 

In distant and admiring gaze of men, 

And the cold scrutiny of village girls 

Who passed for belles. 

I stood upon the steps — 
The last who left the door — and there I found 
The lady and her friend. The elder turned. 
And with a cordial greeting took my hand. 
And rallied me on my forge tfulness. 
Her eyes, her smile, her manner and her voice 
Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke 
Her name. 

She was my mother's early friend, 
Whose face I had not seen in all the years 
That had flown over us, since, from her door, 
I chased her lamb to where I found — myself. 
She spoke with tender words and swimming eyes 



KATHRINA. iS'/ 

Of her I mourned, and questioned me like one 

Who felt a mother's anxious interest 

In all my cares and plans. Why did I not 

In all my maunderings and wanderings 

Remember I had friends, and visit them — 

Not missing her ? Her niece was with her now ; 

Would live with her, perhaps — ("a lovely girl!" — 

In whisper) ; and they both would so much like 

To see me at their house ! (whisper again : 

*' Poor child ! I fear it is but dull for her, 

Here in the country.") Then with sudden thought — 

" Kathrina!" 

With a blushing smile she turned 
(She had heard every word), and then her aunt — 
Her voluble, dear aunt — presented me 
As an old friend — the son of an old friend — 
Whose eyes had promised he would visit them, 
Although, in her monopoly of speech. 
She had quite shut him from the chance to say 
So much as that. 

I caught the period 
Quick as it dropped, and spoke the happiness 
I had in meeting them, and gave the pledge — 
No costly thing to give — to end my walks 
On pleasant nightfalls at the little house 
Under the mountain. 

I had spoken more, 
But then the carriage, with its single horse. 
For which they waited, rattled to the steps, 
And we descended. To their lofty seats 
1 helped the pair, and in my own I held 
For one sweet moment, hand of all the hands 



1 88 KATHRINA. 

In the wide world I longed to clasp the most. 
A courteous " Good Evening, Sir," was all I won 
From its possessor ; but her lively aunt 
With playful menace shook her fan at "me, 
And said : *' Remember, Paul ! " and rode away. 

*' A worldly woman, Sir ! " growled a grum throat. 

I turned, and saw the sexton. Query: *' which?" 

" I mean the aunt." ..." And what about the niece ? " 

"Too fine for common people!" (with a shrug). 

" I think she is," I said, with quiet voice, 

And turned my feet toward home. 

A pious girl ! 
And what could I be to a pious girl ? 
What could she be to me ? Weak questions, these, 
And vain perhaps ; but such as young men ask 
On slighter spur than mine. 

She had bestowed 
Her love, her life, her goodly self on heaven. 
And had been nobly earnest in her gift. 
Before all lovers she had chosen Christ ; 
Before all idols, God ; before all wish 
And will of loving man, her heart and hand 
Were pledged to duty. Could she be a wife ? 
Could she be mine, with such unstinted wealth 
Of love, and love's devotion, as I craved ? 
Would she not leave me for a Sunday School 
Before the first moon's wane ? Would she not seek 
The cant and snufile of conventicles 
" At early candle-light," and sing her hymns 
To driveling boors, and cheat me of her songs ? 
Would she exhaust herself in " doing good " 
After the modern styles— in patching quilts. 



KATHRINA. 1 89 

And knitting socks, and bearing feeble tracts 

To dirty little children — not to speak 

Of larger work for missionary folk ? 

Would there not come a time (O ! fateful time !) 

When Dorcas and her host would fill my house, 

And I by courtesy be held at home 

To entertain their twaddle, and to smile, 

While in God's name and lovely Charity's 

They would consume my substance ? Would she not 

Become the stern and stately president 

Of some society, or figure in the list 

Of slim directresses in spectacles ? 



So much for questions : then reflections came. 

These pious women make more careful wives 

Than giddy ones. They do not run away, 

Though, doubtless, husbands live whose hearts would heal, 

Broken by such a blow ! The time they give 

To worship and to pious offices 

Defrauds the mirror mainly ; and the gold 

That goes for charity goes not for gems. 



Besides, these pious and believing wives 

Make gentle mothers, who, with self-control 

And patient firmness, train their children well — 

A fact to be remembered. But, alas ! 

They train their husbands too, and undertake 

A mission to their souls, so gently pushed, 

So tenderly, they may not take offense. 

Or punish with rebuff; and yet, dear hearts ! 

With such persistence, that they reach the raw 

Before they know it : so it comes to tears 

At last, with comfort in an upper room. 



I90 KATHRINA. 

But then — a seal is sacred to them, and a purse 
Or pocket-book, though in a dressing-room 
With shutters and a key ! 

Thus wrapped in thought 
And selfish calculation of the claims 
Of one my peer, or my superior, 
In every personal and moral grace, 
I walked along, till, on my consciousness, 
Flashed the absurdity of my conceits 
And my assumptions, and I laughed outright — 
Laughed at myself, so loudly and so long 
That I was startled. Not for many months 
Had sound of mirth escaped me ; and my voice 
Rang strangely in my ears, as if the lips 
Of one long dead had spoken. 

I received 
The token of returning healthfulness 
With warm self-gratulation . I had touched 
The magic hand that held new life for me : 
The cloud was lifted, and the burden gone. 
The leaf within my book of fate, that gloomed 
With awful records, washed and blotched by tears- 
Blown by a woman's breath from finger-tips 
They knew not what they did — was folded back ; 
And all the next white page held but one word, 
One word of gold and flame — its title-crown — 
That wrought a rosy nimbus for itself; 
And that one word was love. 

The laggard days 
My pride or my propriety imposed 
Upon desire, before my eyes could see 
The object of my new-born passion, passed ; 



KATHRINA. I9I 

And in the low hours of an afternoon, 
Bright with the largess of kingly shower 
Whose chariot-wheels still thundered in the East, 
Leaving the West aflame, I sought the meads, 
And once again, thrilled by fore- tasted joy, 
Walked toward the mountain. 



While I walked, the rain 
Fell like a veil of gauze between my eyes 
And the blue wall ; and from the precious spot 
That held the object of my thought, there sprang 
An iridal effulgence, faint at first, 
But brightening fast, and leaping to an arch 
That spanned the heavens — a miracle of light ! 



" There's treasure where the rainbow rests," I said. 

Would it evade me, as, for years untold. 

It had evaded every childish dupe 

Whose feet had chased the bright, elusive cheat ? 

Would it evade me ? Question that arose. 

And loomed with darker front and huger form 

Than the dark mountain, and more darkly loomed 

And higher rose as the long path grew short ! 

Would it evade me ? Like a passing smile 

The rainbow faded from the mountain's face ; 

And Hope's resplendent iris, which illumed 

My question, grew phantasmal, and at length 

Evanished, leaving but a doubtful blur. 

Would it evade me ? Gods ! what wealth or waste 

Of precious life awaited the reply ! 

Was it a coward's shudder that o'erswept 

My frame at thought of possible repulse 

And possible relapse ? 



192 KATHRINA. 

"Oh! there he comes!" 
I heard the mistress of the cottage say 
Behind a honeysuckle. Did I smile? 
It was because the fancy crossed me then 
That the announcement was like one which rings 
Over the polar seas, when, from his perch, 
The lookout bruits a long-expected whale ! 
Then sweeping the piazza from the spot 
Where with her niece she sat, she hailed me with : 
" So, you are come at last ! How very sad 
These men have so much business ! Tell me how 
You got away ; how soon you must return ; 
Who suffers by your absence ; what the news. 
And whether you are well." 

Brisk medicine 
These words to me, and timely given. They broke 
The spell of fear, and banished my restraint. 
She took my arm, and led me to her niece, 
Who greeted me as if some special grace 
Of courtesy were due, to make amends 
For the familiar badinage her aunt 
Had poured upon me. 

They had come without — 
One with her work, the other with her book — 
To taste the freshness of the evening air, 
Washed of the hot day's dust by rain ; to hear 
The robin's hymn of joy ; and watch the clouds 
That canopied with gold the sinking sun. 
The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe — 
Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then, 
And sweet with life in every fold, I knew — 
A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair 
A sprig of green and white, was lovelier 



KATHRINA. 1 93 

Than sky or landscape ; and her low words fell 
More musically than the robin's hymn. 
So, with my back to other scene and sound, 
I faced the faces, took the proffered chair 
And looked and listened. 

" Tell us of yourself," 
Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years. 
" What are you doing now?" 

" Nothing," I said. 

" And were you not the boy who was to grow 
Into a great, good man, and write fine books, 
And have no end of fame ? " 

The question cut 
Deeper than she intended. The hot blush 
And stammering answer told her of the hurt, 
And tenderly she tried to heal the wound : 
" I know that you have suffered ; but your hours 
Must not be told by tears. The life that goes 
In unavailing sorrow goes to waste." 

"True," I replied, "but work may not be done 
Without a motive. Never worthy man 
Worked worthily who was not moved by love. 
When she I loved, and she who loved me died, 
My motive died ; and it can never rise 
Till trump of love shall call it from the dust 
To resurrection." 

I spoke earnestly. 
Without a thought that other ears than hers 
Were listening to my words ; but when I looked, 
9 



194 KATHRINA. 

I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears. 
I knew her own experience was touched, 
And that her heart made answer to my own 
In perfect sympathy. 

To change the drift, 
I took her book, and read the title-page : 
" So you hke poetry," I said. 

" So well my aunt 
Finds fault with me." 

"You write, perhaps?" 

" Not I." 

" A happy woman ! " I exclaimed ; " in truth, 
The first I ever found affecting art 
Who shunned expression by it. If a girl 
Like painting, she must paint ; if poetry. 
She must write verses. Can you tell me why 
(For sex marks no distinction in this thing), 
Men with a taste for art in finest forms 
Cherish the fancy that they may become, 
Or are. Art's masters? You shall see a man 
Who never drew a line or struck an arc 
Direct an architect, and spoil his work. 
Because, forsooth! he likes a tasteful house! 
He likes a muffin, but he does not go 
Into his kitchen to instruct his cook, — 
Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes, 
But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts 
Which issue from creative potencies 
Does his conceit engage him. He could learn 
The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat, 



KATHRINA. 195 

But never learn to do that one great deed 
Which he essays." 

*' 'Tis not a strange mistake — 
These people make " — she answered, thoughtfully. 
" Art gives them pleasure ; and they honor those 
Whose heads and hands produce it. If they see 
The length and breadth and beauty of a thought 
Embodied by another, — if they hold 
The taste, the culture, the capacity. 
To measure values in the things of art, 
Why cannot they create ? Why cannot they 
Win to themselves the honor they bestow 
On those who feed them ? Is it very strange 
That those who know how sweet the gratitude 
Which the true artist stirs, should burn to taste 
That gratitude themselves ? " 



*' Not strange, perhaps," 
I said, " and yet, it is a sad mistake ; 
For countless noble lives have gone to waste 
In work which it inspired." 



Here spoke the aunt : 
" You are a precious pair ; and if you know 
What you are talking of, you know a deal 
More than your elders. By your royal leave, 
I will retire ; for I can lay the cloth 
For kings and queens though I may fail to know 
Their lore and language. You can eat, I think ; 
And hear a tea- bell, though you hear not me." 
Thus speaking, in her crisp, good-natured way, 
The lady left us. 



196 KATHRINA. 

When she passed the door, 
And laughter at her jest had had its way, 
I said : '' It takes all sorts to make a world." 

" How many, think you ? Only one, two, three," 

The maiden said. " Here we have all the world 

In this one cottage — artist, teacher, taught, 

In — not to mar the order of the scale 

For courtesy — yourself, myself, my aunt. 

You are an artist, so my aunt reports ; 

But, as an artist, you are nought to her. 

And now, to broach a petted theory. 

Let me presume too boldly, while I say 

She cannot understand you, though I can ; 

You cannot measure her, though she is wise. 

You have not much for her, and that you have 

You cannot teach her ; but I, knowing her. 

Can pick from your creations crumbs of thought 

She will find manna. In the hands of Christ 

The five loaves grew, the fishes multiplied ; 

And he to his disciples gave the feast — 

They to the multitude. Artists are few. 

Teachers are thousands, and the world is large. 

Artists are nearest God. Into their souls 

He breathes his life, and from their hands it comes 

In fair, articulate forms to bless the world ; 

And yet, these forms may never bless the world 

Except its teachers take them in their hands, 

And give each man his portion." 

As she spoke 
In earnest eloquence, I could have knelt, 
And worshiped her. Her delicate cheek was flushed. 
Her eyes were filled with light, and her closed book 
Was pressed against her heart, whose throbbing tide 



KATHRINA. 197 

Thridded her temples. I was half amused, 
Half rapt in admiration ; and she saw 
That in my eyes at which she blushed and paused. 
" Your pardon, Sir," she said. " It ill becomes 
A teacher to instruct an artist." 

"JSTay, 
It does become you wondrously," I said 
With light but earnest words. " Pray you go on ; 
And pardon all that my unconscious eyes 
Have done to stop you." 

" I have little more 
That I would care to say : you have my thought," 
She answered ; " yet there's very much to say. 
And you should say it." 

" Not I, lady, no: 
A poet is not practical like you, 
Nor sensible like you. You can teach him 
As well as tamer folk. In truth, I think 
He needs instruction quite as much as they 
For whom he writes." 



With an arch smile. 



" That's possible," she said, 



Will you explain yourself?" 



" Well — if you wish it — yes : " she made reply. 
"And first, my auditor must know that I 
Believe in inspiration, though he knows 
So much as that already, from my words, — 
Believe that God inspires the poet's soul, — 
That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear 



198 KATHRINA. 

What in his realm holds finest ministry 

For highest aptitudes and needs of men, 

And skill to mould it into forms of art 

Which shall present it to the world he serves. 

Sometimes the poet writes with fire ; with blood 

Sometimes ; sometimes with blackest ink : 

It matters not. God finds his mighty way 

Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes 

Let in the morning light, and in that light 

Our faces shine with kindled sense of God 

And his unwearied goodness ; but the glass 

Gets little good of it ; nay, it retains . 

Its chill and grime beyond the power of light 

To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass 

Had better eyes than he who strode his back. 

And, though the prophet bore the word of God, 

Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul 

Was not a fitting place for psalms like his 

To dwell in over-long, while waiting words, 

If I read rightly. As for the old seers. 

Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life 

Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt 

Whether they comprehended what they saw. 

Or knew what they recorded. It remains 

For the world's teachers to expound their words ; 

To probe their mysteries ; and relegate 

The truth they hold in blind significance 

Into the fair domains of history 

And human knowledge. Am I understood?" 

" You are," I answered ; " and I cannot say 

You flatter me. God takes within his hand 

A thing of his contrivance which we call 

A poet : then he puts it to his lips, 

And speaks his word, and puts it down again — 



KATHRINA. 1 99 

The instrument not better and not worse 
For being handled ; — not improved a whit 
In quality, by quality of that 
Which it conveys. Do I report aright? 
Or do you prompt me ? " 

" You are very apt," 
She said, " at learning, but a little bald 
In statement. Nathless, be it as you say ; 
And we shall see how it is possible 
That poets need instruction quite as much 
As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men 
The brightest geniuses have been ! How weak, 
How mean in character ! how foul in life ! 
How feebly have the best of them retained 
The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed 
In crystal streams from God, the fountain head, 
Through them to fertilize the world ! Nay, worse, 
How many of them have infused the tide 
With tincture of their own impurity, 
To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips. 
And breed diseases in the finest blood ! 
And poets not alone, and not the worst ; 
But painters, sculptors — those whose kingly power 
And aptitude for utterance divine 

Have made them artists : — how have these contemned 
In countless instances the God of Heaven 
Who filled them with his fire ! Think you that these 
Could compass their achievements of themselves ? 
Can streams surpass their fountains ? " 

"Nay," I said, 
In quick response, "Your argument is good; 
But is the artist nothing? Is he nought 
But an apt tool — a mouth-piece for a voice ? 



200 KATHRINA. 

You make him but the spigot of a cask 
Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups 
To bear away the wine that leaves it dry. 
You magnify your office." 

" We do all 
Wait upon God for every grace and good," 
She then rejoined. '' You take it at first hand, 
And we from yours : the multitude from ours. 
It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills 
Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand. 
And if I magnify my office — well ! 
'Tis a great office. What would come of all 
The music of the masters, did not we 
Wait at their doors, to publish to the world 
What God has told them ? They would be as mute 
As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony, 
An opera, an oratorio, 
In language that the teacher understands. 
And straight the whole world echoes to its strains. 
It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms 
From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs ; 
The halls of art of both the hemispheres 
Resound with its divinest melodies ; 
The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear 
The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp 
Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm ; 
The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys 
Adopt the lighter strains ; and round and round 
A million souls its hovering fancies float, 
Like butterflies above a fair parterre. 
Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last; 
And lo ! two petals more on every flower ! 
And this not all ; for though the master die, 
The teacher lives forever. On and on, 



KATHRINA. 20I 

Through all the generations, he shall preach 

The beautiful evangel ; — on and on, 

Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years 

That lie prevening the millennium, 

And slid into that broad and open sea, 

He shall sail singing still the songs he learned 

In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er 

To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues 

Are overpast, and argosy and crew 

Ride at their port." 

"True as to facts," I said; 
*' And as to prophecies, most credible ; 
But, as an illustration, false, I think. 
That which the voice and instrument may do 
For the composer, types may do for those 
Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ 
In language that the people do not read — 
Is lame in that — and needs interpreters ; 
While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms 
And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular. 
Your aunt can read the book within your hand 
As well as you, if she desire, yet finds 
Your score all Greek, until you vocalize 
Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts 
Which meet the eye in picture and in form. 
They ask no mediator but the light — 
No grace but privilege to shine with naught 
Between them and the light. They are themselves 
Expositors of that which they expose, 
Or they are nothing. All the middle-men— 
The fools profound — who take it on their tongues 
To play the showmen, strutting up and down, 
And mouthing of the beauty that they hide, 
Are an impertinence." 
9* 



202 KATTIRINA. 

'' You leave no room 
For critics," she suggested, with a smile. 
" We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives 
And innocent babes it feeds." 

" No care for them ! " 
I made reply. " They do not need much room — 
Men of their build — and what they need they take. 
The feeble conies burrow in the rocks ; 
But the trees grow, and we are not aware 
Of space encumbered by them." 

" Yet the fact 
Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully, 
" That greatest artists speak to fewest souls. 
Or speak to them directly. They have need 
Of no such ministry as waits the beck 
Of the composer ; but they need the life, 
If not the learning, of the cultured few 
Who understand them. If from out my book 
I gather that which feeds me, and inspires 
A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life. 
And give my life to those who cannot win 
From the dim text such boon, then have I borne 
A blessing from the book, and been its best 
Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven 
Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are — 
Some ready souls — that take the morsel pure 
Divided to their need ; but multitudes 
Must have it in admixtures, menstruums. 
And forms that human hands or human life 
Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find 
Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls 
In sight of great cathedrals, or in view 
Of noble pictures, yet they see not all, 



KATHRINA. 203 

And not the best. That which they do not see 
Must enter higher souls, and there, by art 
Or life, be fashioned to their want." 



" Your thought 
Grows subtle," I responded, "and I grant 
Its force and beauty. If the round truth lie 
Somewhere between us, and I see the face 
It turns to me in stronger light than you 
Reveal its opposite, why, let the fault be mine ; 
It is not yours. You have instructed me, 
And won my thanks." 



"Instructed you?" she said, 
With a fine blush : " you mock, you humble me. 
And have I talked so much, with such an air, 
That, either earnestly or in a jest. 
You can say this to me ? " 



" 'Tis not a sin, 
In latitude of ours," I made reply, 
"To talk philosophy; 'tis only rare 
For beardless lips to do so. I have caught 
From yours a finer, more suggestive scheme 
Than all the wise have taught me by their books, 
Or by their voices. I will think of it." 

" Now may you be forgiven ! " the aunt exclaimed, 
Approaching unobserved. " There never lived 
A quieter, more plainly speaking girl. 
Than my Kathrina. All these weeks and months. 



204 KATHRINA. 

I have heard nought from her but common sense ; 
But when you came, why, off she went ; though where 
It's more than I know. You, sir, have the blame ; 
And you must lift your spell, and give her back 
Just as you found her." 

" She has practiced well 
Her scheme on us. She breaks to you the bread 
That meets your want; to me, that meets my own," 
I said, in answering. 

" Well," spoke the aunt, 
" I think I'll try my hand at breaking bread : 
So, follow me." 

We followed to her board, 
And there, in converse suited to the hour 
And presence of our hostess, proved ourselves — 
Quite to that lady's liking — of the earth. 
We ate her jumbles for her, sipped her tea, 
And reveled in the spicy succulence 
Of her preserves. 

While still I sat at ease, 
The maiden's eye, with quick, uneasy glance. 
Sought the clock's dial. Then she turned to me, 
And said with sweet, respectful courtesy : 
*' Pray you excuse my presence for an hour. 
A duty calls me out ; and that performed, 
I will return." 

I saw she marked my look 
Of disappointment — that it staggered her — 
The while with words of stiffest commonplace 
I gave assent. But she was on her feet; 



KATHRINA. 205 

And soon I heard her light step on the stair, 
Seeking her chamber. 

" Whither will she go 
At such an hour as this, from you and me ? " 
I coldly questioned of the keen-eyed aunt. 



" You men are very curious," she said. 

" I knew you'd ask me. Can't a lady stir, 

But you must call her to account ? Who knows 

She may not have some rustic lover here 

With whom she keeps her tryst ? 'Tis an old trick, 

Not wholly out of fashion in these parts. 

What matters it? She orders her own ways, 

And has discretion." 

With lugubrious voice 
I said : " You trifle, madam, with my wish. 
I know the lady has no lover here. 
And so do you." 

*' I'm not so sure of that ! " 
My hostess made response ; and then she laughed 
A rippling, rollicking roulade, and shook 
Her finger at me, till my temples burned 
With the hot shame she summoned. 

"There!" I said; 
" You've done your worst, and learned so much, at least- 
That I admire your niece. / curious ! 
Well, you are curious and cunning too. 
Now, in the moment of your victory. 
Be generous ; and tell me what may call 
The lady from us." 



206 KATHRINA. 

" It is Thursday night," 
She answered soberly, — " the weekly hour 
At which our quiet neighborhood convenes 
For social worship. You may guess the rest 
Without my telling ; but you cannot know 
With what anticipated joy she leaves 
Our company, or with what shining face 
She will return." 

At that, I heard her dress 
Sliding the flight, and rising, made my way 
To meet her at its foot. A happy smile 
Illumed her features, as she gave her hand 
With thought of parting. I had rallied all 
My self-control and gallantry meanwhile, 
And said : '* Not here. I'll with you, by your leave, 
So far as you may walk." 



There was a flash 
Of gladness in her eyes, and in her thanks 
A subtler charm than gratitude. 



I bade 
My hostess a '' good-night," and left her door. 
Declining her entreaty to return. 
We walked in silence, side by side, a space. 
And then, with feigned indifference, I spoke : 
'' Your aunt has told me of your errand ; else, 
It had been modest in me to withhold 
This tendance on your steps. She tells me you 
Are quite a devotee. Whom do you meet, 
In neighborhood like this, to give a zest 
To hour like this ? " 



KATHRINA. 20/ 

" Brothers and sisters all," 
She said in low reply; " and as for zest, 
There's never lack of it where there is love. 
When families convene, they have no need 
Of more than love to give them festal joy ; 
Nor do they with discrimination judge 
Between the high and humble. These are one ; 
Love makes them one." 

*' And you are one with these ? " 

"Though most unworthy of such fellowship, 
I trust that I am one with these ; — that they 
Are one with me, and reckon me among 
Their number." 

" Can they do you any good? " 

** They can," she said, " but were it otherwise, 
I can serve them ; and so should seek them still. 
I help them in their songs." 

We reached too soon 
The open doorway of the humble hut 
Which, for long years, had held the village school,. 
And, at a little distance, paused. The room, 
Battered and black by wantonest abuse 
Of the rude youth, was lit by feeble lamps. 
Brought by the villagers ; and scattered round 
Upon the high, hacked benches, hardly less 
Rude and rough-worn than they, the worshipers 
In silence sat. It was no place for words. 
I took the lady's hand, and said " good-night ! " 
In whisper. Then she turned, and disappeared 
Within the sheltered gloom ; but I could see 



208 KATHRINA. 

The care-worn cheeks light up with pleasant fire 
As she passed in ; and e'en the fainting lamps 
Flared with new life, the while they caught the breath 
Of her sweet robe. Then with an angry heart 
I turned away, and, wrapped in selfish thought, 
Took up the walk toward home. 



This homely group 
Of Yankee lollards she preferred to me ! 
These poor, pinched boobies, with their silly wives— 
Ah ! these were they who gave her overmuch 
In the bestowal of their fellowship ! 
These crowned her with a peerless privilege, 
Permitting her to sit with them an hour 
As a dear sister ! How my sore self-love 
Burned with the hot affront ! 



With lips compressed, 
Or blurting forth their anger and disgust, 
I strode the meadows, stalked the silent town, 
And growled and groaned in sullen helplessness 
About the streets, until the midnight bell 
Tolled from the old church tower ; — in helplessness, 
For, mattered nothing what or who she was 
(I had not dared or cared to question that), 
Or how offensive in her piety 
And her devotion to the tasteless cult 
Of the weak throng, I was her slave ; and she — 
Her own and God's. The miserable strife 
Between my love of self and love of her 
I knew was bootless ; and the trenchant truth 
Cut to the quick. She held within her hand 
My heart, my life, my doom, yet knew it not ; 



KATHRINA. 209 

And had she known, her soul was under vows 
Which would forever make subordinate 
Their recognized possession. 

But the mdrn 
Brought with it better mood and calmer thoughts. 
I had the grace to gauge the heartlessness 
Of my exactions, and the power to crush 
The tyrant wish to tear her from the throne 
To which she clung. I said : ''So she love me 
As a true woman loves, and give herself — 
Her sweet, pure self — to me, and fill my home 
With her dear presence, loyal still to me 
In wifely love and wifely offices, ' 
Though she abide in Christian loyalty 
By Christian vows, she shall have liberty, 
And hold it as her right." 

She was my peer : 
No weakling girl, who would surrender will 
And life and reason, with her loving heart, 
To her possessor ; — no soft, clinging thing 
Who would find breath alone within the arms 
Of a strong master, and obediently 
Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness ; — 
No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend 
His royal pleasure, and account herself 
Rewarded by his pats and pretty words, 
But a round woman, who, with insight keen, 
Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well 
Her womanhood ; had spread before her feet 
A fine philosophy to guide her steps ; 
Had won a faith to which her life was brought 
In strict adjustment — brain and heart meanwhile 
Working in conscious harmony and rhythm 



2IO KATHRINA. 

With the great scheme of God's great universe, 
On toward her being's end. 

I could but know 
Her motives were superior to mine. 
I could but feel that in her loyalty 
To God and duty, she condemned my life. 
Into her woman's heart, thrown open wide 
In holy charity, she had drawn all 
Of human kind, and found no humblest soul 
Too humble for her entertainment, — none 
So weak it could return no grateful boon 
For what she gave ; and standing modestly 
Within her scheme, with meekest reverence 
She bowed to those above her, yet with strong 
And hearty confidence assumed a place 
In service of the world, as minister 
Ordained of heaven to break to it the bread 
She took from other hands. And she was one 
Who could see all there was of good in me, — 
Could measure well the product of my power, 
And give it impulse and direction : nay, 
Could supplement my power ; and help my heart 
Against its foes. 

The moment that I thrust 
The selfish thirsting for monopoly 
Of her affections from my godless heart. 
She entered in, and reigned a goddess there. 
If she had fascinated me before. 
And fired my heart with passion, now she bent 
My spirit to profound respect. I bowed 
To the fair graces of her character. 
Her queenly gifts, and the beneficence 
Of her devoted life, with humbled heart 



KATHRINA. 211 

And self-depreciation. All of God 

That the world held for me, I found in her; 

And in her, all the God I sought. She was 

My saviour from myself and from my sins ; 

For, with my worship of the excellence 

Which she embodied, came the purity 

And peace to which, through all my troubled life, 

I had been stranger. Thoughts and feelings all 

Were sublimated by the subtle flame 

Which warmed and wrapped me ; and I walked as one 

Might walk on air, with things of earth beneath, 

Breathing a rare, supernal atmosphere 

Which every sense and faculty informed 

With light and life divine. 

What need to tell 
Of the succeeding summer days, and all 
Their deeds and incidents ? They floated by 
Like silent sails upon a summer sea. 
That, sweeping in from farthest heaven at morn, 
Traverse the vision, and at evening slide 
Out into heaven again, their pennant-flames 
The rosy dawns and day-falls. O'er and o'er, 
I walked the path, and crossed the stream, that lay 
Between me and the idol of my heart ; 
And every day, in every circumstance, 
I found her still the same, yet not the same ; 
For, every day, some unsuspected grace, 
Or some fresh revelation of her wealth 
Of character and culture, touched my heart 
To new surprise, and overflowed the cup 
Whose wine was life to me. 

Though I could see 
That I was not unwelcome ; though I knew 



212 KATHRINA. 

I gave a zest to her sequestered life, 
I had built up so high my only hope 
On her affection — I had given myself 
So wholly to the venture for her hand, 
I did not dare to speak of love, or ask 
The question which, unasked, held hopefully 
My destiny : which answered, might bring doom 
Of madness or of death. 

Meanwhile, I learned 
The lady's history from other lips 
Than her's — her aunt's. Alas ! the old, old tale ! 
She had been bred to luxury ; and all 
That wealth could purchase for her, or the friends 
Swarmed by its golden glamour could bestow. 
She had possessed. But he who won the wealth. 
Reaching for more, slipped from his height and fell. 
Dragging his house to ruin. Then he died — 
Died in disgrace ; and all his thousand friends 
Fell off, and left his pampered family, 
The while the noisy auctioneer knocked down 
His house and household gods, and set adrift 
The helpless life thus cruelly bereft. 
The mother lived a month : the rest went forth, 
Not knowing whither ; but they found among 
The poor a shelter for their poverty, — 
Kathrina with her aunt. Thus, in few words, 
A tragedy of heart-breaks and of death. 
Such as the world abounds with. 

But this girl. 
With her quick instincts and her brave, good heart, 
Determined she would live awhile, and learn 
What lesson God would teach her. This she sought. 
And, seeking, found, or thought she found. How well 



KATHRINA. 213 

She learned the lesson — what the lesson was — 
Her life, thus far revealed, and waiting still 
My feeble record, shall disclose. Enough, 
Just now and here, that out of it she bore 
A noble womanhood, accepting all 
Her great misfortunes as the discipline 
Of a paternal hand, in love prescribed 
To lead her to her place, and whiten her 
For Christian service. 

All the summer fled ; 
And still my heart delayed. One pleasant eve, 
When first the creaking of the crickets told 
Of Autumn's opening door, I went with her 
To ramble in the fields. We touched the hem 
Of the dark mountain's robe, that falls in folds 
Of emerald sward around his feet, and there 
Upon its 'tufted velvet we sat down. 
It was my time to speak, but I was dumb ; 
And silence, painful and portentous, hung 
Upon us both. At length, she turned and said : 
" Some days have passed since you were latest here. 
Have you been ill ? " 

" No, I have been at work," 
I answered, — ** at my own delightful work ; 
The first since first we met. The record lies 
Where I may reach it at a word from you. 
Command, and I will read it." 

" I command," 
She said, responding with a laugh. " Nay, I 
Entreat. I used your word, but this is mine. 
And has a better sound from lips of mine. 
I am your waiting auditor." 



214 KATHRINA. 

I read : 

** Was it the tale of a talking bird? 
Was it a dream of the night ? 
When have I seen it ? Where have I heard 
Of the haps of a dainty craft, that stirred 
My spirit with affright? 

4 

"The shallop stands out from the sheltered bay 

With a burden of spirits twain, — 
A woman who lifts her eyes to pray, 
A tall youth, trolling a roundelay, 

And before them night, and the main ! 



*'0! Star of The Sea! They will come to harm: 

Nor master nor sailor is there ! 
The youth clasps the mast with his sinewy arm. 
And laughs ! Does he hold in his bosom a charm 

That will baffle the sprites of the air ? 



"O! woe to the delicate ship! O! woe! 

For the sun is sunk, and behold ! 
The trooping phantoms that come and go 
In the sky above and the waves below ! 

Ho ! The wind blows wild and cold. 



The woman is weeping in weak despair ; 

The youth still clings to the mast, 
With cheeks aflame, and with eyes that stare 
At the phantoms hovering everywhere ; 

And the storm -rack rises fast ! 



KATHRINA. 21 5 

' ' The phantoms close on the flying bark ; 
They flutter about her peak; 
They sweep in swarms from the outer dark ; 
But the youth at the mast stands still and stark, 
While they flap his stinging cheek. 

'^ They shiver the bolts that the lightning flings ; 

They bellow and roar and hiss ; 
They splash the deck with their slimy wings- 
Monstrous, horrible, ghastly things — 

That climb from the foul abyss. 



ii 



No star shines out at the woman's prayer; 

O ! madly distraught is she ! 
And the bark drives on with her wild despair, 
With shrieking fiends in the crowded air, 

And fiends on the swarming sea. 

" Then out of the water before their sight 
A shape loomed bare and black ! 
So black that the darkness bloomed with white ; 
So black that the lightning grew strangely bright ; 
And it lay in the shallop's track ! 

*' O! fierce was the shout of the goblins then! 

How the gibber and laugh went round ! 
The shout and the laugh of a thousand men, 
Echoed and answered, and echoed again, 

Would have been a feebler sound. 

" Straight toward the blackness drove the ship ; 

But the youth still clung to the mast: 
' I have read,' quoth he, with a proud, cold' lip, 
* That the devil gets never a man on the hip 

Whom he scares not, first or last.' 



2l6 KATHRINA. 

" Nearer the blackness loomed ; and the bark 

Scudded before the breeze ; 
Nearer the blackness loomed, and hark! 
The crash of breakers out of the dark, 

And the shock of plunging seas ! 

*' O ! woe ! for the woman's wits ran daft 

With the fearful bruit and burst ; 
She sprang to her feet, and flitting aft, 
She plunged in the sea, and the black waveq quaffed 

The sweet life they had cursed. 

" Light leaped the bark on the mountain-breast 

Of a tenth-wave out to land ; 
While the sprites of the sea fell off to rest, 
And the youth, unharmed, became the guest 

Of the elves of the silent land. 

" With banter and buffet they pressed around; 

They tied his strong hands fast ; 
But he laughed, and said, ' I have read and found 
That the devil throws never a man to the ground 

Whom he scares not, first or last.' 

*' Under the charred and ghastly gloom. 

Over the flinty stones. 
They led him forth to his terrible doom. 
And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb, 

They sat him among the bones. 

'* They left him there in the crawling mire : 

They could neither maim nor kill : 
For fiends of water, and earth, and fire, 
Are baffled and beaten by the ire 

Of a dauntless human will. 



KATHRINA. 21/ 

*' Days flushed and faded, months passed away, 
He knew by the golden light 
That shot, through a loop in the wall, the ray 
Which parted the short and slender day 
From the long and doleful night. 

" Was it a vision that cheated his eyes ? 

Was he awake, or no ? 
He stared through the loop with keen surprise, 
For he saw a sweet angel from the skies, 

With white wings, folded low. 

" Could she not loose him from his thrall, 

And lead him into the Hght ? 
* Ah me ! ' he murmured, ' I dare not call, 
Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul, 

And leave me in swift affright I ' 

*' She plumed her wings with a noiseless haste ; 

He could neither call nor cry : 
She vanished into the sunny waste. 
Into far blue air that he longed to taste ; 

And he cursed that he could not die. 

*' But she came again, and every day 

He worshiped her where she shone ; 
And again she left him and floated away, 
But his faithless tongue refused to pray 

For the boon she could give alone. 

" And there he sits in his dumb despair, 

And his watching eyes grow dim : 
Would God that his coward lips might dare 
To utter the word to the angel fair. 

That is life or death to him ! " 

ID 



2l8 KATHRINA. 

I marked her as I read, a furtive glance 
Filling each pause. The passion of the piece, 
Flaming and fading, ever and anon, 
Mirrored itself within her tender eyes, 
Themselves the mirror of her tender soul, 
And fixed attent upon my face the while. 

She had not caught my meaning, but had heard 
Only a weird, wild story. When I paused. 
Folding the manuscript, I saw a shade 
Of disappointment sweep her face, and marked 
A question rising in her eyes. She knew 
That I was waiting for her words, and turned 
Her look away, and for long moments gazed 
Into the brooding dusk. 

" Speak it ! " I said. 

" 'Twas very strange and sad," she answered me. 
"Why do you write such things? — or, writing such. 
Leave them so incomplete ? The prisoned youth, 
Thus unreleased, will haunt me while I live. 
I shudder while I think of him." 

Then I : 
" The poem will be finished, by-and-by, 
For this is history, and antedates 
No fact that it records. Whether this youth 
Shall live entombed, or reach the blessed air, 
Depends upon his angel ; for he calls — 
I hear him call, and call again her name 
Kathrina! O! Kathrina ! " 

Like the flash 
Of the hot lightning, the significance 



KATHRINA. 219 

Of the strange vision gleamed upon her face 
In a bright, throbbing flame, that fell full soon 
To ashen paleness. By unconscious will 
We both arose. She vainly tried to speak, 
And gazed into my eyes with such a look 
Of tender questioning, of half- rep roach. 
Of struggling, doubting, hesitating joy. 
As few men ever see, and none but once. 

Are there not lofty moments, when the soul 

Leaps to the front of being, casting off 

The robes and clumsy instruments of sense, 

And, postured in its immortality. 

Reveals its independence of the clod 

In which it dwells ? — moments in which the earth 

And all material things, all sights and sounds. 

All signals, ministries, interpreters, 

Relapse to nothing, and the interflow 

Of thought and feeling, love and life go on 

Between two spirits, raised to sympathy 

By an inspiring passion, as, in heaven, 

The body dust, within an orb outlived, 

It shall go on forever? . 

Moments like these — 
Nay, these in very truth — were given us then. 
Who shall expound — ah ! who but God alone, 
The everlasting mystery of love ? 
She spoke not, but I knew that she was mine. 
I breathed no word, but she was well assured 
That I was wholly her's. 

In what disguise 
Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle ; 
Behind what semblance of indifference, 



220 KATHRINA. 

Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords 

That bound our hearts in one, was mystery 

Like love itself. The swift intelligence 

Of interchange of perfect faith and troth, 

Of gift of life and person, of the thrill 

Of triumph in my soul and gratitude 

In hers, without a gesture, or a word, 

Was like the converse of the continents — 

Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire 

That underlay the throbbing mystery 

Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one, 

I opened wide my arms, and she, my own. 

Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy, 

In such embrace of passionate tenderness, 

As heaven may yield again, but never earth. 

Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home, 
Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on, 
Silent at first, and then with quiet speech 
Broaching our plans, or tracing in review 
The history of our springing love, when she, 
Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine : 

"Dear Paul ! 
There are some things, and some I will not name, 
That make me sad, e'en in this height of joy. 
In the wild lay that you have read to-night. 
You make too much of me. No heart of man, 
Though loving well and loving worthily. 
Can be content with any human love. 
No woman, though the pride and paragon 
Of all her sex, can take the place of God. 
No angel she : nor is she quite a man 
In power and courage, — gifts which charm her most, 
And which, possessing most, disrobe her charms, 



KATHRINA. 221 

And make her less a woman. If she stand 
In fair equality with man — his mate — 
Each unto each the rounded complement 
Of their humanity, it is enough ; 
And such equality must ever lie 
In their unequal gifts. This thing, at least, 
Is true as God : she is not more than he, 
And sits upon no throne. To be adored 
By man, she must be placed upon a throne 
Built by his hands, and sit an idol there. 
Degraded by the measure of the flight 
Between God's thought and man's." 

Responding, I : 
*' Fix your own place, my love ; it is your right. 
'Tis well to have a theory, and sit 
In the centre of it, mistress of its law, 
And subject also ; — to set men up here 
And women there, in a fine equipoise 
Of gift and grace and import. It conveys 
To nicely-working minds a pleasant sense 
Of order, like a well-appointed room. 
Where one may see, in various stuffs and wares. 
Forethoughts of color brought to harmony ; 
Strict balancings of quantity and form ; 
Flowers in the center, and, beside the grate, 
A rack for shovel and tongs. But minds like these 
(Your pardon, love !) are likely to arrange 
The window-lights to save the furniture, 
And spoil the pictures on the wall. And you, 
In the adjustment of your theory. 
Would shut the light from her whose mind informs 
Its harmonies. All worship, in my thought. 
Goes hand in hand with love. We cannot love, 
And fail to worship what we love. While you 



222 KATHRINA. 

Worship the strength and courage which you find 

In him who has your heart, he bows to all 

Of faith and sweetness which he finds in you. 

If, in our worship, we have need to build 

Noblest ideals, taking much from God 

With which to make them perfect in our eyes. 

Shall God mark blame ? We worship him the while, 

In attributes his own, or attributes 

With which our thought invests him. As for me — 

It is no secret — I am what you call 

A godless man ; yet what is worshipful. 

Or seems to be so, that with all my heart 

I worship ; and I worship while I love. 

You deem yourself the dwelling-place of God, 

And keep your spirit cleanly for his feet. 

All merit you abjure, ascribing all 

To him who dwells within you. How can you 

Forbid that I fall down and worship you, 

When what I find to worship is not yours, 

But God's alone? I know the ecstasy 

Enlarges, strengthens, purifies my soul. 

And blesses me with peace. My love, my life. 

You are my all. I have no other good, 

And, in this moment of my happiness, 

I ask no other." 

Tears were in her eyes, 
Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm, 
While under droop of lashes she replied : 
" I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry. 
It does not touch my judgment or my heart 
With motive of conviction. In what way 
God may be working to reclaim your will 
And worship to himself, I cannot know. 
If through your love for me, or mine for you, 



KATHRINA. 223 

Then, as his grateful, willing instrument, 

I yield myself to him. But this is true ;' 

God is not worshiped in his attributes. 

I do not love your attributes, but you. 

Your attributes all meet me otherwhere, 

Blended in other personalities. 

Nor do I love, nor do I worship them. 

Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard 

Will dare a danger which will make you pale. 

But shall his courage steal my heart from you? 

You cheat your conscience, for you know that I 

May like your attributes, yet love not you ; 

Nay, worship them indeed, despising you. 

I do not argue this to damp your joy. 

But make it rational. If you presume 

Perfection in me, — if you lavish all 

The largess of your worship and your love 

On me, imposing on my head a crown 

Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart 

The pang of disappointment. There will come 

A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul, 

The cry for something more, and more divine, 

Will rise, nor be repressed." 

There is a charm 
In earnestness, when it inspires the lips 
Of one we love, that spoils their argument. 
And yields so much of pleasure and of pride, 
That the conviction which they seek evades 
Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings 
Crows from its covert. 

She was casuist. 
Cunning and clear ; and I was proud of her ; 
And though I knew that she had swept away 



224 KATHRINA. 

My refuges of lies like chaff, and proved 
My fair words fustian, I was moved to mirth 
Over the solemn ruin. Had it been 
A decent thing to do, I should have laughed 
Full in her face ; but knowing that her words 
Were offspring of her conscience and her love, 
I could no less than hold respectfully 
Her earnest warning. 



" Well, I'll take the risk," 
I said. " While you shall have the argument, 
I will have you, who, on the whole, I like 
Better than that. And you shall have your way. 
And I my own, in common liberty. 
With things like these. You, doubtless, are to me 
What I am not to you. We are unlike 
In life and circumstance — alike alone 
In this : that better than all else on earth 
We love each other. This is basis broad 
For happiness, or broad enough for me. 
If you build better, you are fortunate. 
Ay, fortunate indeed ; and some fine day 
We'll talk about it. Let us have to-night 
Joy in our new possessions, and defer 
This little joust of wits and consciences 
To more convenient season." 



We had reached 
The cottage door at this ; and there her aunt 
Awaited our return. So, hand in hand. 
Assuming show of rustic bashfulness. 
We paused before her, and with bows profound 
Made our obeisance. 



KATHRINA. 225 

"Well?" she said at length; 
" Well ?— and what of it ? " 

" Are you not surprised ? " 



I asked. 



Surprised, indeed ! Surprised at what ? " 



"At what you see: and this! and this!" I said, 
Planting a kiss upon each lovely cheek 
Of my betrothed, that straightway bloomed with rose. 
"What! are you blind, my aunt?" 

" You silly fools! 
I've seen it from the first," she answered me. 
" No doubt you thought that you were very deep. 
Very mysterious — all that sort of thing. 
I've watched you, and if you, young man, had been 
Aught but a coward, it had come before, 
And saved some sleep o'nights to both of you. 
But down upon your knees, for benison 
Of one who loves you both." 

We knelt, and then 
She kissed us, leaving on our cheeks the tears 
That sprang to brim the moment. Her shrewd eyes, 
That melted in the sympathy of love, 
Would not meet ours again, but turned away, 
And sought in solitude to drain themselves 
Of their strange passion. 

God forbid that I, 
With weak and sacrilegious lips, betray 
The confidence of love ; or tear aside 
The secresy behind whose snowy folds 

lO* 



226 KATHRINA. 

Honor and virgin modesty retire 

For holiest communion ! For the fire 

Which burns upon that altar is of God. 

Its tongues of flame, throughout all time and space, 

Speak but one language, understood by all, 

But sacred ever to the wedded hearts 

That listen to their breathings. 

In the deep hours of night 
I left the cottage, brain and heart o'erfilled 
With the ethereal vintage I had quaffed. 
Disturbing not the drowsy ferryman, 
I slipped his little wherry from the sand. 
And in the star-sprent river lipped the oars 
That pulled me homeward. The enchanting tide 
Was smooth continuation of the dream 
On which my spirit, holily afloat, 
Had glided through long hours of happiness. 
Earth, by the strange, delicious ecstasy, 
Was changed to paradise ; and something kin 
To gratitude arose within my soul — 
A fleeting passion, dying all too soon, 
Lacking the root which faith alone can feed. 

I touched the shore ; but when my hasting feet 
Started the homeward walk, there came a change. 
Down from the quiet stars there fell a voice, 
Heard in the innermost, that troubled me : 
"She is not more than you: why worship her? 
And she will die : what will remain for you ? 
You may die first, indeed : then what resource ? 
You have no sympathy with her in things 
Ordained within her conscience and her life 
The things supreme : can there be marriage thus ? 
Is e'en such bliss as may be possible 



KATHRINA. 22/ 

Sure to be yours ? Fate has a thousand hands 
To dash your lifted cup." 

With thoughts like these, 
A vague uneasiness invaded me, 
And toned the triumph of my passion, till, 
Almost in anger, I exclaimed at last : 
" This is reaction. I have flown too high 
Above the healthy level, and I feel 
The press of denser air. The equipoise 
Of circumstance and feeling will be reached 
All in good time. Rest and to-morrow's sun 
Will bring the remedy, and, with the mists, 
This cloud will pass away." 

Then with clenched hands 
I swore I would be happy, — that my soul 
Should find its satisfaction in her love ; 
And that, if there should ever come a time 
Of cold satiety, or I should find 

Weakness or fault where I had thought was strength 
And full perfection, I would e'en endow 
Her poverty with all the hoarded wealth 
Of my imagination, making her 
The woman of my want, in plenitude 
Of strength and loveliness. 

The breezy days 
Over whose waves my buoyant life careered, 
Rolled to October, falling on its beach 
With bursts of mellow music ; and I leaped 
Upon the longed-for shore ; for, in that month, 
My dear betrothed, deferring to the stress 
Of my impatient wish, had promised me 
Her hand in wedlock. 



228 KATHRINA. 

Ere the happy day 
Dawned on the world, the world was draped in robes 
Meet for the nuptials. Baths of sunny haze, 
Steeping the ripened leaves from day to day. 
And dainty kisses of the frost at night. 
Joined in the subtile alchemy that wrought 
Such miracles of change, that myriad trees 
Which pranked the meads and clothed the forest glooms 
Bloomed with the tints of Eden. Had the earth 
Been splashed with blood of grapes from every clime, 
Tinted from topaz to dim carbuncle, 
Or orient ruby, it would not have been 
Drenched with such waste of color. All the hues 
The rainbow knows, and all that meet the eye 
In flowers of field and garden, joined to tell 

Each tree's close-folded secret. Side by side a« 

Rose sister maples, some in amber gold, ^ 

Others incarnadine or tipped with flame ; 
And oaks that for a hundred years had stood, 
And flouted one another through the storms — 
Boasting their might — proclaimed their pique or pride 
In dun, or dyes of Tyre. The sumac-leaves 
Blazed with such scarlet that the crimson fruit 
Which hung among their flames was touched to guise 
Of dim and dying embers ; while the hills 
That met the sky at the horizon's rim — 
Dabbled with rose among the evergreens. 
Or stretching off in sweeps of clouted crimson — glowed 
As if the archery of sunset clouds, 
By squads and fierce battalions, had rained down 
Its barbed and feathered fire, and left it fast 
To advertise th' exploit. . 

In such pomp 
Of autumn glory, by the simplest rites. 



KATHRINA. 229 

Kathrina gave her hand to me, and I 

Pledged truth and life to her. I bore her home 

Through shocks of maize, revealing half their gold, 

Past gazing harvesters with creaking wains 

That brimmed with fruitage — my adored, my wife, 

Fruition of my hope — the proudest freight 

That ever passed that way ! 



My troc ps of friends, 
Grown strangely warm and strangely numerous 
With scent of novelty and pleasant cheer, 
Assisted me to place upon her throne 
My household queen. Right royally she sat 
The new-born dignity. Most graciously 
She spoke and smiled among the silken clouds 
That, fold on perfumed fold, like frankincense 
Enveloped her, through half the festal night, 
With welcome and good wishes. I was proud ; 
For was not I a king where she was queen ? 
And queen she was — though consort in my home. 
Queen regnant in the realm of womanhood. 
By right of every charm. 



Into her place, 
As mistress of all home economies. 
She slid without a jar, as if the Fates, 
By concert of foreordinate design. 
Had fitted her for it, and it for her. 
And, having joined them well, were satisfied. 
Obedient to the orbit of our love. 
We came and went, revolving round our home 
In spheral harmony — twin stars made one, 
And loyal to one law. 



230 KATHRINA. 

When at our board, 
All viands lifted by her hand became 
Ambrosial ; and her light, elastic step 
From room to room, in busy household cares, 
Timed with my heart, and filled me with a sense 
Of harmony and peace. Days, weeks, and months 
Lapsed like soft measures, rhyming each with each, 
All charged with thoughtful ministries to me, 
And not to me alone ; for 1 was proud 
To know that she was counted by the good 
As a good power among them, — by the poor. 
As angel sent of God, on whom they called 
His blessing down. 

She held her separate life 
Of prayer and Christian service, without show 
Of sanctity, without obtrusiveness ; 
And, though I could but know she never sought 
A blessing for herself, forgetting me 
In her petition, not in all those months 
Did word of difference betray the gulf 
Between our souls and lives. She had her plan : 
I guessed it, and respected it. She felt 
That if her life were not an argument 
To move me, nothing that her lips might say 
Could win me to her wish. Pride would repel 
What it could not refute, and pleasantry 
Parry the thrusts that love could not resent. 

A whole year sped, yet not a line of verse 
Had grown beneath my pen. When I essayed 
To brace my powers to effort, and to call 
Forth from their camp and covert the bright ranks 
Of tuneful numbers, no responsive shout 
Answered the bugle-blast, and from my hand — 



KATHRINA. 23 1 

Irresolute and nerveless as a babe's — 
My falchion fell. 

She rallied me on this ; 
But I had naught to say, save this, perhaps : 
That she, being all my world, had left no room 
For other occupation than my love. 
She did not smile at this : it was no jest. 
But saddest truth. I had grown enervate 
In the warm atmosphere which I had breathed ; 
And this, with consciousness that in her soul — 
As warm with love as mine — each gentle power 
Was kindling with new life from day to day. 
Growing with my decline. 

Well, in good time, 
There came to us a child, the rniniature 
Of her on whose dear breast my babyhood 
Was nursed and cradled ; and my happy heart. 
Charged with a double tenderness, received 
And blessed the precious gift. Another fount 
Of human love gurgled to meet my lips. 
Another store of good, as rich and pure. 
In its own kind, as that from which I drank, 
Was thus discovered to my taste, and I 
Feasted upon its fullness. 

With the gift 
That brimmed my cup of joy, there came a grace 
To her who bore it of fresh loveliness. 
If I had loved the maiden and the bride, 
The mother, through whose pain my heart had won 
Its new possession, fastened to my heart 
With a new sympathy. Whatever dross 
Our months of intimacy had betrayed 



232 KATHRINA. 

Within her character, was purged away, 

And she was left pure gold. Nay, I should say, 

Whatever goodness had not been revealed 

Through the relations of her heart to mine 

As loving maid and mistress, found the light 

Through her maternity. A heavenly change 

Passed o'er her soul and o'er her pallid face, 

As if the unconscious yearning of a life 

Had found full satisfaction in the birth 

Of the new being. Her long weariness 

Was but a trance of peace and gratitude ; 

And as she lay — her babe upon her breast, 

Her eyelids closed — I could but feel that heaven. 

Should it hold all the good of which she dreamed, 

Had little more for her. 

And when again 
She moved about the house, in ministry 
To me and to her helpless child, I knew 
That I had tasted every precious good 
That woman bears to man. Ay, more than this : 
That not one man in thousands had received 
Such largess of affection, and such prize 
Of womanhood, as I had found in her. 
And made my own. The whole enchanting round 
Of pure, domestic commerce had been mine. 
A lover blest, a husband satisfied, 
A father crowned ! Love had no other boon 
To offer me, and held within its gift 
No other title. 

Thus, within the space 
Of two swift years, I traversed the domain 
Of novelty, and learned that I must glean 
The garnered fields of my experience 



KATHRINA. 233 

To gratify the greed that still possessed 

My sateless heart. The time had come to me — 

Which I had half foreseen — when, by my will, 

My interest in those I loved should live 

Predominant in all my life. I nursed 

With jealous care my passion for my wife. 

I raised her to an apotheosis 

In my imagination, where I bowed 

And paid my constant homage. I was still 

Her fond and loyal lover ; but my heart, 

That had so freely drunk, with full content, 

Had seen the bottom of the cup she held ; 

And what remained but tricks to eke it out. 

And artifice to give it piquancy. 

And sips to cool my tongue, the while my heart 

Was hollow with its thirst? My little child 

Was precious to my soul beyond all price ; 

Mother and babe were all that they could be 

To any heart of man ; and yet — and yet ! 

Of all the dull, dead weights man ever bore, 
Sure, none can wear the soul with discontent 
Like consciousness of power unused. To feel 
That one has gift to move the multitude, — 
To act upon the life of humankind 
By force of will, or fire of eloquence. 
Or voice of lofty art, and yet, to feel 
No stir of mighty motive in the soul 
To action or endeavor ; to behold 
The fairest prizes of this fleeting life 
Borne off by patient men who, day by day. 
By bravest toil and struggle, reach the heights 
Of great achievement, toiling, struggling thus 
With a strong joy, and with a fine contempt 
For soft and selfish passion ; to see this. 



234 KATHRINA. 

Yet cling to such a passion, like a slave 
Who hugs his chains in sluggish impotence, 
Refusing freedom lest he lose the crust 
The chain of bondage warrants him — ah ! this 
Is misery indeed I 

Such misery 
Was mine. I held the consciousness of power 
To labor even-headed with the best 
Who wrought for fame, or strove to make themselves 
Felt in the world's great life ; and yet, I felt 
No lift to enterprise, from heaven above 
Or earth beneath ; for neither God nor man 
Lived in my love. My home held all my world ; 
Yet it was evident — I felt, I knew — 
That nought could fill my opening want but toil ; 
And there were times when I had hailed with joy 
The curse of poverty, compelling me 
To labor for my bread, and for the bread 
Of those I loved. 

My neighbors all around 
Were happy in their work. The plodding hind 
Who served my hand, or groomed my petted horse, 
Whistled about his work with merry heart, 
And filled his measure of content with toil. 
In all the streets and all the busy fields. 
Men were astir, and doing with their might 
What their hands found to do. They drove the plough. 
They trafficked, builded, delved, they spun and wove; 
They taught and preached, they hasted up and dcwu 
Each on his little errand, and their eyes 
Were full of eager fire, as if the earth 
And all its vast concerns were on their hands. 
Their homes were fresh with guerdon every night* 



KATHRINA. 2^5 

And ripe with impulse to new industry 
At each new dawn. 

I saw all this, but knew 
That they were not like me — were most unlike 
In constitution and condition. Thus, 
My power to do, and do the single thing 
My power was shaped to do, became, instead 
Of wings to bear me, weights to burden me. 
The moiling multitude for little tasks 
Found little motives plenty ; but for me, 
Who in my indolence they all despised — 
Not understanding me — no motive rose 
To lash or lead. Even the love I dreamed 
Would give me impulse had defrauded me. 
Feeble and proud ; strong, yet emasculate ; 
Centered in self, and still despising self ; 
Goaded, yet held ; convinced, but never moved ; 
Such conflict ofttimes held and harried me 
That death had met with welcome. If I read, 
I read to kill my time. No interest 
In the great thoughts of others moved my soul, 
Because I had no object ; useless quite 
The knowledge and the culture I possessed ; 
And if I rode, the stale monotony 
Of the familiar landscapes sickened me. 

In these dull years, my toddling little wean 
Grew into prattling childhood, and I gained 
Such fresh delight from her as kept my heart 
From fatal gloom ; but more and more I shunned 
The world around me, more and more drew in 
The circle of my life, until, at last. 
My home became my hermitage. I knew 
The dissolution of the spell would come, 



236 KATHRINA. 

And, though I dreaded it, I longed to greet 

The crash and transformation. If my pride 

Forbade the full confession to my wife 

That time had verified her prophecy, 

It failed to hold the truth from her. She read, 

With a true woman's insight, all my heart ; 

But with a woman's sensitiveness shrank 

From questions which might seem to carry blame ; 

And so, for years, there lay between our souls 

The bar of silence. 

One sweet summer eve, 
After my lamb was folded and before 
The lamps were lighted, as I sat alone 
Within my room, I heard reluctant feet 
Seeking my door. They paused, and then I heard : 

" May I come in ? " 

" Ay, you may always come ; 
And you are welcome always," I replied. 

The room was dim, but I could see her face 

Was pale, and her long lashes wet. "Your seat" — 

I said, with open arms. Upon my knee. 

One hand upon my shoulder, she sank down 

As if the heart within her breast were lead, 

And she were weary with its weight 

" My wife, 
What burden now ? " I asked her tenderly. 

She fixed her swimming eyes on mine, and said : 
" My dear, you are not happy. Years have gone 
Since you have been content. I bring no words 



KATHRINA. 237 

Of blame against you : you have been to nie 
A comfort and a joy. Your constancy 
Has honored me as few of all my sex 
Are honored by your own ; but while you pine 
With secret pain, I am so wholly yours 
That I must pine with you. I've waited long 
For you to speak ; and now I come to you 
To ask you this one question : is there aught 
Of toil or sacrifice within my power 
To ease your heart, or give you liberty 
Beyond the round to which you hold your feet ? 
Speak freely, frankly, as to one who loves 
Her husband better than her only child, 
And better than herself." 



I drew her head 
Down to my cheek, and said : "My angel wife 1 
Whatever torment or disquietude 
I may have suffered, you have never been 
Its cause, or its occasion. You are all — 
You have been all — that womanhood can be 
To manhood's want ; and in your woman's love 
And woman's pain, I have found every good 
My life has known since first our lives were joined. 
You knew me better than I knew myself; 
And your prophetic words have haunted me 
Like thoughts of retribution : ' There will come 
' A sad, sad time, when in your famished soul 
' The cry for something more, and more divine 
' Will rise, nor be repressed.'' For something more 
My spirit clamors : nothing more divine 
I ask for." 

"What shall be this * something more'?" 



238 KATHRINA. 

"Work," I replied; "ay, work, but never here; ' 

Work among men, where I may feel the touch 

Of kindred life ; work where the multitudes 

Are surging ; work where brains and hands 

Are struggling for the prizes of the world ; 

Work where my spirit, driven to its bent 

By competitions and grand rivalries, 

Shall vindicate its own pre-eminence. 

And wring from a reluctant world the meed 

Of approbation and respect for which 

It yearns with awful hunger ; work, indeed, 

Which shall compel the homage of the souls 

That creep around me here, and pity you 

Because, forsooth, the Fates have hobbled you 

With a dull drone. I know how sweet the love 

Of two fond souls ; and I will have the hearts 

Of millions. These shall satisfy my greed, 

And round the measure of my life ; and these 

My work shall win me." 

At these childish words, 
She raised her head, and with a sweet, sad smile 
Of love and pity blent, made her response : 
" Not yet, my husband — if your wife may speak 
A thought that crosses yours — not yet have you 
Found the great secret of content. But work 
May help you toward it, and in any case 
Is better far than idleness. For this. 
You ask of me to sacrifice this home 
And all the truest friends my life has gained. 
I do it from this moment ; glad to prove. 
At any tender cost, my love for you, 
And faith in your endeavor. I will go 
To any spot of earth where you may lead, 
And go rejoicing. Let us go at once ! " 



KATHRINA. 239 

" I burn my ships behind me," I replied. 

" Measure the cost : be sure no secret hope 

Of late return be found among the flames ; 

For, if I go, I leave no single thread, 

Save that which binds me to my mother's grave, 

To draw me back." 

" My love shall be the torch 
To light the fire," she answered. 

Then we rose, 
And, with a kiss, marked a full period 
To love's excess, and with a sweet embrace 
Wrote the initial of a stronger life. 



4 



4 

A REFLECTION. 



Oh ! not by bread alone is manhood nourished 

To its supreme estate ! 
By every word of God have Hved and flourished 

The good men and the great. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! 

" Oh ! not by bread alone ! " the sweet rose, breathing 

In throbs of perfume, speaks ; 
*'But myriad hands, in earth and air, are wreathing 

The blushes for my cheeks. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! " 

" Oh ! not by bread alone ! " proclaims in thunder 

The old oak from his crest ; 
" But suns and storms upon me, and deep under, 

The rocks in which I rest. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! " 

"Oh! not by bread alone!" The truth flies singing 

In voices of the birds ; 
And from a thousand pastured hills is ringing 

The answer of the herds : 
"Ay, not by bread alone!" 



KATHRINA. 24I 

Oh! not by bread alone! for life and being 

Are finely complex all, 
And increment, with element agreeing, 

Must feed them, or they fall. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! 

Oh ! not by love alone, though strongest, purest, 

That ever swayed the heart ; 
For strongest passion evermore the surest 

Defrauds each manly part. 
Ay, not by love alone ! 

Oh! not by love alone is power engendered. 

Until within the soul 
The gift of every motive has been rendered, 

It is not strong and whole. 
Ay, not by love alone ! 

Oh! not by love alone is manhood nourished 

To its supreme estate : 
By every word of God have lived and flourished 

The good men and the great. 
Ay, not by love alone I 



II 



PART III. 



LABOR. 

Ten years of love ! — a sleep, a pleasant dream 
That passed its culmen in the early half, 
Concluding in confusion — a wild scene 
Of bargains, auctions, partings, and what not ?— 
And an awaking ! 

I was in Broadway, 
A unit in a million. Like a bath 
In ocean surf, blown in from farthest seas 
Under the August ardors, the grand rush 
Of crested life assailed me with its waves, 
And cooled me while it fired. With sturdy joy 
I sought its broadest billows, and resigned 
My spirit to their surge and sway ; or stood 
In sheltered coves, reached only by the spume 
And crepitant bubbles of the yesty floods. 
Drinking the roar, the sheen, the restlessness, 
As inspiration, both of sense and soul. 

I saw the waves of life roll up the steps 

Of great cathedrals and retire ; and break 

In charioted grandeur at the feet 

Of marble palaces, and toss their spray 

Of feathered beauty through the open doors, 



244 KATHRINA. 

To pile the restless foam within ; and burst 
On crowded caravansaries, to fall 
In quick return ; and in dark currents glide 
Through sinuous alleys and the grimy loops 
Of reeking cellars ; and with softest plash 
Assail the gilded shrines of opulence, 
And slide in musical relapse away. 

With senses dazed and stunned, and soul o'erfilled 
With chaos of new thoughts, I turned away. 
And sought my city home. There all was calm, 
With wife and daughter waiting my return. 
And eager with their welcome. That was life !— 
An interest in the great world of life, 
A place for toil within a world of toil. 
And love for its reward. '^ Amen ! " I said, 
" And twice amen ! I've found my life at last, 
And we will all be happy." 

Day by day — 
The while I sought adjustment to the life 
Which I had chosen, and with careful thought 
Gathered to hand the fair material 
Elect by Fancy for the organism 
Over whose germ she brooded — I went out, 
To bathe again upon the shore of life 
My long- enfeebled nature. 

Every day 
I met some face I knew. My college friends 
Came up in strange disguises. Here was one, 
With a white neck-cloth and a saintly face, 
W^ho had been rusticated and disgraced 
For lawlessness. Now he administered 
A charge which proved that he had been at work, 



KATHRINA. 245 

And made himself a man. And there was one — 

A lumpy sort of boy, as memory 

Recalled him to me — grown to portliness 

And splendid spectacles. He drove a chaise, 

And practiced surgery, — was on his way 

To meet a class of youth, who sought to be 

Great surgeons like himself, and took full notes 

Of all his stolen wisdom. By his watch — 

A gold repeater, with a mighty chain — 

He gave me just five minutes ; then rolled off — 

Pretension upon wheels. Another grasped 

My hand as if I were his bosom friend, 

Just in from a long voyage. He was one 

Who stole my wood in college, and received 

With grace the kick I gave him. He had grown 

To be the tail of a portentous firm 

Of city lawyers ; managed, as he said, 

The matter of collections ; and had made 

In his small way — to use his modest phrase, 

Truthful as modest — quite a pretty plum. 

He was o'erjoyed to see me in the town : 

Hoped I would call upon him at his den : 

If I had any business in his line, 

Would do it for me promptly ; as for price, 

No need to talk of that between two friends ! 

But these, and all — the meanest and the best — 

Were hard at work. They always questioned me 

Before we parted, touching my pursuits ; 

And though they questioned kindly, I grew sore 

Under the repetition, and ashamed 

To iterate my answer, till I burned 

To do some work, so lifted into fame, 

That shame should be to him whose ignorance 

Compelled a question. 



246 KATHRINA. 

Simplest foresters 
Have learned the trick of woodland broods, that fly- 
In radiant divergence from the flash 
Of death and danger, and, when all is still, 
Steal back to where their fellows bit the dust 
For rendezvous. And thus society 
Follows the brutal instinct. When the friends, 
Who from her father's ruin fled amain, 
Found out my wife, and learned that it was safe 
To gather back to the old feeding-ground, 
They came. Her old home had become my own 
And they were all delighted. It was sweet 
To have her back again ; and it was sad 
To know that those who once were happy there, 
Dispensing happiness, could come no more. 

It had its modicum of earnestness, — 
This talk of their's — and she received it all 
With hearty courtesy, and yielded it 
The unction of her charity, so far 
That it was smooth and redolent to her. 
The difference — the world-wide difference — 
Between my wife and them was obvious ; 
But she was generous through nature's gift 
I fancied — could not well be otherwise ; 
Although their fawning filled me with disgust. 
Oh ! fool and blind ! not to perceive the Christ 
That shone and spoke in her! 

The hour approached'— 
The pre-determined time — when I should close 
My study-door, and wrap my kindling brain 
In the poetic dream which, day by day, 
Was gathering consistence in my brain. 
The quick, creative instinct in me plumed 



KATHRINA. 247 

Its pinions for the flight, and I could feel 
The influx of fresh power ; but whence it came, 
I did not question ; though it fired my heart 
With the assurance of success. 

I told 
My dear companion of my hopeful plans 
For winning fame, and making for myself 
A lofty place ; but I could not inspire 
Her heart with my ambition, or win o'er 
Her judgment to my motive. She adhered 
To her old theory, and gave no room 
To any motive it did not embrace. 
We argued much, but always argued wide, 
And ended where we started. Postulates 
On which we stood in perfect harmony, 
Were points of separation, out from which 
We struck divergently, till sympathy. 
That only lives by rhythm of thoughts and hearts, 
Lay dead between us. 

*' Man loves praise," I said. 
"It is an appetence which He who made 
The human soul, made to be satisfied. 
It is a tree He planted. If it grow 
On that which feeds it, and become at last 
Thrifty and fruitful, it is still His own, 
With usury. And if, in His intent, 
This passion have no place among the powers 
Of active life, why is it mighty there 
From youngest childhood ? Pray you what is fame 
But concrete praise ? — the universal voice 
Which bears, from every quarter of the earth, 
Its homage to a name, that grows thereby 
To be its own immortal monument, 



248 KATHRINA. 

Outlasting all the marble and the bronze 

Which cunning fingers, since the world began, 

Have shaped or stamped with story? What is fame 

But aggregate of praise ? And if it be 

Legitimate to win, for sake of praise, 

The praise of one, why not of multitudes ? " 

"Ay," she replied; "'tis true that men love praise; 

And it is true that He who made the soul 

Planted therein the love of praise, to be 

A motive in its life — all true so far ; 

And so far we agree. But motives all 

Have their appropriate sphere and sway, like men 

Who bear them in their breasts. The love of praise 

Fills life with fine amenities. Not all 

Who live have pleasant tempers, and not all 

The gift of gracious manners, or the love 

Of nobler motive, higher meed than praise. 

The world is full of bears, who smooth their hair, 

And glove their paws, and put on manly airs, 

And hold our honey sacred, and our lives 

Our own, because they hunger for our praise. 

'Tis a fine thing for bears — this love of praise — 

And those who deal with them ; and a good thing 

For children, and for parents, teachers — all 

Who have them in their keeping. It may hold 

A little mind to rectitude, until 

It grow, and grow ashamed to yield itself 

To such a petty motive. Children all 

Like sugar, and it may admit of doubt 

Whether our praise or sugar sweetens more 

Their petulant sub-acids ; but a man 

Would choke in swallowing the compliment 

Which we should pay him, were we but to say 

' Go to ! Do some great deed, and you shall have 



KATHRINA. 249 



V'our pay in sugar : — maple, mind you, now, 
So you shall do it featly.' " 



'' Very good! " 
I answered, " very good, indeed ! if we 
Engage in talk for sport ; but argument 
On themes like these must have the element 
Of candor. Highest truth, in certain lights. 
May be ridiculous, and yet be truth. 
Women are angels : just a little weak 
And just a little wicked, it may be. 
Yet still the sweetest beings in the world ; 
But when one stands with apprehensive gasp 
At verge of sternutation, or leaps off, 
Projecting all her being in a sneeze. 
Or snores with lips wide-parted, or essays 
The ' double-quick,' we turn our eyes away 
In sadness, that a creature so divine 
Can be so shockingly ridiculous ; 
Yet who shall say she's not an angel still ? 
Now you present to me the meanest face 
Of a most noble truth. I laugh with you 
Over its sorry semblance ; but the truth 
Is still divine, and claims our reverence. 
The great King Solomon— and you believe 
In Solomon — has said that a good name 
Is more to be desired than much fine gold. 
If a good name be matter of desire 
Beyond all wealth — and you will pardon me 
For holding to the record — it may stand 
As a grand motive in the life of man. 
To grand endeavor. I have yet to learn 
That Solomon addressed his words to bears, 
Or little children. I am forced to think 
II* 



250 KATHRINA. 

That you and I, and all who read his words, 
Are those for whom he wrote." 

Rejoining she : 
" A good may be the subject of desire, 
And not be motive to achievement. Life, 
If I may speak the riddle, is a scheme 
Of indirections. My own happiness 
Is something to desire ; and yet, I know 
That I must win it by forgetting it 
In ministry to others. If I make 
My happiness the motive of my work, 
I spoil it by the taint of selfishness. 
But are you sure that you do not presume 
Somewhat too much, in claiming the desire 
For a good name as motive of your life ? 
Greatness, not goodness, is the end you seek, 
If I mistake you not ; and these are held, 
In the world's thought, as two, and most distinct. 
King Solomon was wise, but wiser He 
Who said to those who loved and followed him, 
* Who would be great among you, let him serve.' 
The greatest men — and artists should be such. 
For they are God's nobility and man's — 
Should work from greatest motives. Selfishness 
Is never great, and moves to no great deeds. 
To honor God, to benefit mankind. 
To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs 
Of the poor race for which the God-man died, 
And do it all for love — oh ! this is great ! 
And he who does this will achieve a name 
Not only great but good." 

" Not in this world," 
I answered her. " I know too much of it. 



KATHRINA. 25 1 

The world is selfish ; and it never gives 

Due credit to a motive which assumes 

To be above its own. If a man write, 

It takes for granted that he writes for fame, 

And judges him accordingly. It holds 

Of no account all other aims and ends ; 

And visits with contempt the man who bears 

A mission to his kind. The critic pens 

That twiddle with his work, or play with it 

As cats with mice, are not remarkable 

For gentle instincts ; and my name must live 

By pens like these. I choose to take the world 

Just as I find it, and I pitch my tune 

To the world's key, that it may sing my tune, 

And sing for me. Ay, and I take myself 

Just as I find myself. I do not love 

The human race enough to work for it. 

Having no motive of philanthropy, 

I'll make pretense to none. The love of praise 

I count legitimate and laudable. 

'Tis not the noblest motive in the world. 

But it is good ; and it has won more fames 

Than any other. Surely, my good wife. 

You would not shut me from it, and deprive 

My power of its sole impulse." 

"No; oh! no," 
She answered quickly. " I am only sad 
That it should be the captain of your host. 
All creatures of the brain are the result 
Of many motives and of many powers. 
All life is such, indeed. The power that leads — 
The motive dominant — this stamps the work 
With its own likeness. Throughout all the world 
Are careful souls, with careful consciences, 



2 52 KATHRINA. 

That pierce themselves with questionings and fears 

Because that, with the motives which are good, 

And which alone they seek, a hundred come 

They do not seek, and aye sophisticate 

Their finest action. They are wrong in this : 

All motives bowing to one leadership. 

And aiding its emprise, are. one with it — 

The same in trend, the same in terminus. 

All the low motives that obey the law, 

And aid the work, of one above them all. 

Do holy service, and fulfill the end 

For which they were designed. The love of praise 

Is not the lowest motive which can move 

The human soul. Nay, it may do good work 

As a subordinate, and leave no soil 

On whitest fabric, at whose selvage shines 

The Master's broidered signature. Although 

You write for fame, think not you will escape 

The press of other motives. You love me ; 

You love your child ; you love your pleasant home ; 

You love the memory of one long dead. 

These, joined with all those qualities of heart 

Which make you dear to me, will throng around 

The leader you appoint, and come and go 

Under his banner ; and the work of God 

Will thrive through these, the while your own goes on. 

God will not be defrauded, nor yet man ; 

And you, who like the Pharisees make prayer 

At corners of the streets, for praise of men, 

Will have reward you seek." 

" Ay, verily!" 
Responded I with laughter. '' Verily ! 
Though not a saint, I'll do a saintly work 
For my own profit, and in spite of all 



KATHRINA. 253 

The selfishness that moves me. Better, this, 

Than I suspected. My sweet casuist — 

My gentle, learned, lovely casuist — 

I thank you ; and I'll pay you more than thanks. 

I'll promise that when these fine motives come. 

And volunteer their service, they shall find 

Welcome and entertainment, and a place 

Within the rank and file, with privilege 

Of quick promotion, so they show themselves 

Motives of mettle." 

This the type of talk 
That passed between us. I was not a fool 
To count her wisdom worthless ; nor a God, 
To work regeneration in myself. 
That something which I longed for, to fill up 
The measure of my good, was human praise ; 
Yet I could see that she was wholly right. 
And that she held within herself resource 
Of satisfaction better than my own. 
But I was quite content — content to know 
I trod the average altitude of those 
Within the paths of art, and had no aims 
To be misconstrued or misunderstood 
By Pride and Selfishness — that these, in truth, 
Expected of me what I had to give. 

Strange, how a man may carry in his heart. 
From year to year — through all his life, indeed — 
A truth, or a conviction, which shall be 
No more a part of it, and no more worth 
Than to his flask the cork that slips within ! 
Of this he learns by sourness of his wine. 
Or muddle of its color ; by the bits 
That vex his lips while drinking ; but he feels 



2 54 KATHRINA. 

No impulse in his hand to draw it forth, 

And bid it crown and keep the draught it spoils. 

I write this, here, not for its relevance 
To this one passage of my story, but 
Because there slipped into my consciousness 
Just at this juncture, and would not depart, 
A truth I carried there for many years, 
Each minute seeing, feeling, tasting it, 
Yet never touching it with an attempt 
To draw it forth, and put it to its place. 

One evening, when our usual theme was up, 
I asked my wife in playful earnestness 
How she became so wise. " You talk," I said, 
" Like one who has survived a thousand years, 
And drunk the wisdom of a thousand lives." 

" Who lacketh wisdom, let him ask of God, 
Who giveth freely and upbraideth not," 
Was her reply. 

I "I never ask of God," 

I said. " So, while you take at second hand 
His breathings to the artist, I will take 
At second hand the wisdom that he gives 
To you, his teacher." 

" Do you never pray ? " 

" Never," I answered her. " I cannot pray : 
You know the reason. Never since the day 
God shut his heart against my mother's prayer 
Have I raised one petition, or been moved 
To reverence." 



KATHRINA. 255 

Her long, dark lashes fell, 
And from her eyes there dropped two precious tears 
That bathed her folded hands. She pitied me, 
With tenderness beyond the reach of words. 
I did not seek her pity. I was proud, 
And asked her if she blamed me. 



*' No," she said ; 
*' I have no right to blame you, and no wish. 
I marvel only that a man like you 
Can hold so long the errors of a boy. 
I've looked — with how much longing, words of mine 
Can never tell — for reason to restore 
That priceless thing which passion stole from you, 
And looked in vain." 

Though piqued by the reproach 
Her words conveyed (unwittingly I knew), 
I wished to learn where, in her theory 
Of human life, my case had found a place ; 
So, bidding pride abacky I questioned her. 
" You are so wise in other things," I said, 
" And read so well God's dealings with his own. 
Perhaps you can explain this mystery 
That clouds my life." 

" I know that God is good," 
She answered, "and, although my reason fail 
To explicate the mystery that wraps 
His providence, it does not shake my faith. 
But this sad case of yours has seemed so plain. 
That Reason well may spare the staif of Faith 
To climb to its conclusions. You are loved, 
My husband : can you tell your wife for what ? " 



256 KATHRINA. 

" Oh ! modesty ! my dear ; hem ! modesty ! 
Spare me these blushes ! I have not at hand 
The printed catalogue of qualities 
Which give you inspiration, and decline 
The personal rehearsal." 

" You mistake," 
She answered, smihng. "Not for modesty; 
And as for blushes, they're not patent yet. 
But frankly, soberly, I ask you this : 
Have you a quality of heart or brain 
Which makes you lovable, and in my eyes 
A man to be admired, that was not born 
Quick in your blood? Pray, have you anything 
Which you did not inherit? Who to me 
Furnished my husband ? By what happy law 
Was all that was the finest, noblest, best 
In those who gave you life, bestowed on you? 
You have your father's form, your father's brain : 
You have your mother's eyes, your mother's heart. 
Those twain produced a man for me to love. 
Out of themselves. I am obliged to them 
For the most precious good the round earth holds, 
Transmitted by a law that slew them both. 
It was not sin, or shame, for them to die 
Just as they died. They passed with whiter hands 
Up to The Throne than he who wantonly 
Murders a sparrow. When your mother prayed 
She prayed for the suspension of the law 
By which from Eve, the mother of the race. 
She had received the grace and loveliness 
Which made her precious to your heart — the law 
By which alone she could convey these gifts 
To others of her blood. Your daughter's face 
Is beautiful, her soul is pure and sweet. 



KATHRINA. 25/ 

By largess of this law. Could God subvert, 
To meet her wish, though shaped in agony. 
The law which, since the life of man began 
In life of God, has kept the channel clear 
For His own blood, that it might bless the last 
Of all the generations as the first ? 
What could He more than give her liberty — 
When reason lay in torture or in wreck, 
And life was death — to part with stainless hand 
The tie that held her from his loving breast ? " 

If God himself had dropped her words from heaven. 

They had not reached with surer plummet- plunge 

The depths of my conviction. I was dumb ; 

I opened not my mouth ; but left her side, 

And sought the crowded street. I felt that all 

Delusions, subterfuges, self-deceits. 

By which my soul had shut itself from God, 

Were stripped away, and that no barrier 

Was interposed between us which was not 

My own hand's building. Never, nevermore. 

Could I hold God in blame, or deem myself 

A guiltless, injured creature. I could see 

That I was hard, implacable, unjust ; 

And that by force of willful choice I held 

Myself from God ; for no impulsion came 

To seek his face and favor. Nay, I feared 

And fought such incidence, as enemy 

Of all my plans. 

So it became thenceforth 
A problem with me how to separate 
My new conviction from my life — to hold 
A revolutionizing truth within. 
And hold it yet so loosely, it should be 



258 KATHRINA. 

Like a dumb alien in. a mural town — 
No guest, but an intruder, who might bide. 
By law or grace, but win no domicile. 
And hold no power. 

When I returned, that night, 
My course was chosen, with such sense of guilt ^ 

I blushed before the calm, inquiring eyes 
That met me at my threshold ; but the theme 
Was dropped just there. My gentle mentor read 
The secret of the struggle and the sin, 
And left me to myself. 

At the set time, 
I entered on my task. The discipline 
Of early years told feebly on my work, 
For dissipation and disuse of power 
Had brought me back to infancy again. 
My will was weak, my patience was at fault, 
And in my fretful helplessness, I stormed 
And sighed by turns ; yet still I held in force 
Determination, as reserve of will ; 
And when I flinched or faltered, always fell 
Back upon that, and saved my powers from rout. 
Casting, recasting, till I found the germ 
Of my conception putting forth its whorls 
In orderly succession round the stem 
Of my design, that straight and strong shot up 
Toward inflorescence, my long work went on, 
Till I was filled with satisfying joy. 
This lasted for a little time, and then 
There came reaction. I grew tired of it. 
My verses were as meaningless and stale 
As doggrel of the stalls. I marveled much 
That they could ever have beguiled my pride 



KATHRINA. 259 

Into self-gratulation, or done aught 

But overwhelm me with contempt for them, 

And the dull pen that wrote them. 

I had hoped 
To form and finish my projected work 
Within, and by, myself, — to tease no ear 
With fragmentary snatches of my song, 
And call for no support from friendly praise 
To reinforce my courage ; but the stress 
Of my disgust and my despair — the need, 
Imperative and absolute, to brace myself 
By some opinion borrowed for the nonce, 
And bathe my spirit in the sympathy 
Of some strong nature — mastered my intent. 
And sent me for resource to her whose heart 
Was ever open to my call. 

She sat 
Through the long hour in which I read to her, 
Absorbed, entranced, as one who sits alone 
Within a dim cathedral, and resigns 
His spirit to the organ-theme, that mounts. 
Or sinks in tremulous pauses, or sweeps out 
On mighty pinions and with trumpet voice 
Through labyrinthine harmonies, at last 
Emerging, and through silver clouds of sound 
Receding and receding, till it melts 
In the abysses of the upper sky. 
It was not needful she should say a word ; 
For in her glowing eyes and kindling face, 
I caught the full assurance that my heart 
Had yearned for; but she spoke her hearty praise; 
And when I asked her for her criticism, 
Bestowed it with such modest deference 



26o KATHRINA. 

To my opinion, as to spare my pride ; 
Yet, with such subtle sense of harmony, 
And insight of proportion, that I saw 
That I should find no critic in the world 
More competent or more severe. I said. 
Gulping my pride: ''Better this ordeal 
In friendly hands, before the time of types, 
Than afterward, in hands of enemies ! " 

So, from that reading, it was understood 
Between us that, whenever I essayed 
Revising and retouching, I should know 
Her intimate impressions, and receive 
Her frank suggestions. In this oversight 
And constant interest of one whose mind 
Was excellent and pure, and raised above 
All motive to beguile me, I secured 
New inspiration. 

Weeks and months passed by 
With gradient hopefulness, and strength renewed 
At each renewal of the confidence 
I had reposed in her ; till I perceived 
That I was living on her praise — that she 
Held God's place in me and the multitude's. 
And now, as I look back upon those days 
Of difficult endeavor, I confess 
That had she not been with me, I had failed — 
Ay, foundered in mid-sea — my hope, my life. 
The spoil of deep oblivion. 

At last 
The work was done — the labored volume closed. 
'' I cannot make it better," I exclaimed. 
I can write better, but, before I write, 



a 



KATHRINA. 261 

I must have recognition in the voice 
Of public praise. A good paymaster pays 
When work is finished. Let him pay for this, 
And I will work again ; but, till he pay, 
My leisure is my own, and I will wait." 

" And if he grudge your wage ? " suggested she 
To whom I spoke. 

" I shall be finished too." 

Came then the proofs and latest polishing 
Of words and phrases — work I shared with her 
To whom I owed so much ; and then the fear, 
The deathly heart-fall, and the haunting dread 
That go before exposure to the world 
Of inmost life, and utmost reach of power 
Toward revelation ; — then the shrinking spell. 
When morbid love of self awaits in pain 
The verdict it has courted. 

But at last 
The book was out. My daughter's hand in mine— 
Her careless feet, that thrilled with springing life, 
Skipping the pavement — I walked down Broadway, 
To ease the restlessness and cool the heat 
That vexed my idle waiting. As we passed 
A showy window, filled with costly books. 
My little girl exclaimed : '' Oh, father ! See ! 
There is your name ! " 

Straight all the bravery 
Within my veins, at one wild heart-thump, dropped. 
And I was limp as water ; but I paused. 
And read the placard. It announced my book 



262 KATHRINA. 

In characters of flame, with adjectives 
My daring pubhsher had filched, I think, 
From an old circus broadside. 

" Well ! " thought I— 
Biting my lip — "I'm in the market now! 
How much — O ! rattling, roaring multitude ! 

! selfish, cheating, lying multitude ! 

O ! hawking, trading, delving multitude ! — 
How much for one man's hope, for one man's life ? 
What for his toil and pain ? — his heart's red blood ? 
What for his brains and breeding ? Oh, how much 
For one who craves your praises with your pence, 
And dies with your denial ? " 

I went in, 
And bought my book — not doubting I was first 
To give response to my apostrophe. 
The smug old clerk, who found his length of ear 
Convenient as a pencil-rack, and thus 
Made nature's wrath proclaim the praise of trade, 
Wrapped my dear bantling well ; and, as he dropped 
My dollar in his till, smiled languidly 
Upon my little girl, and said to me — 
To cheer me in my purchase — that the book 
Was thought to be a deuced clever thing. 
He never read such books : he had no time; 
Indeed, he had no interest in them. 
Still, other people had, and it was well, 
For it helped trade along. 

It was for him — 
A vulgar fraction of the integral 
We speak of as " the people," and " the world" — 

1 had been writing ! Had he read my book, 



KATHRINA. 263 

And given it his praise, I should have been 
Delighted, though I knew that his applause 
Was worthless as his brooch. I was a fool 
Undoubtedly ; yet I could understand. 
Better than e'er before, how separate 
The artist is from such a soul as his — 
What need of teachers and interpreters 
To crumble in his pewter porringer 
The rounded loaf, whose crust was adamant 
To his weak fingers. 

The next morning's press 
Was purchased early, though I read in vain 
To find my reputation. But at night, 
My door-bell rang ; and I received a note 
From one who edited an evening print, 
(I had dined with him at my publisher's), 
Inclosing a review, and venturing 
The hope that I should like it. 

Cunning man ! 
He knew the tricks of trade, and was adroit. 
My poem was "a revelation." I had "burst 
Like thunder from a calm and cloudless sky." 
Well, not to quote his language, this the drift : 
A man of fortune, living at his ease. 
But fond of manly effort, had sat down. 
And turned his culture to supreme account ; 
And he — the editor — took on himself 
To thank him on the world's behalf. Withal, 
The poet had betrayed the continence 
Of genius. He had held, undoubtedly. 
The consciousness of power from early youth ; 
But, yielding never to the itch for print. 
Had nursed and chastened and developed it, 



264 KATHRINA. 

Until his hand was strong, and swept his lyre 
With magic of a master. 

Followed here 
Sage comments on the rathe and puny brood 
Of poet-sucklings, who had rushed to type 
Before their time — pale stems that spun their flowers 
In the first sunshine, but, when Autumn came, 
Were fruitless. It was pleasant, too, to see, 
In such an age of sentimental cant. 
One man who dared to hold up to the world 
A creature of his brain, and say : '' Look you! 
This is my thought ; and it shall stand alone. 
It has no moral, bears no ministry 
Of pious teaching, and makes no appeal 
To sufferance or suffrage of the muffs 
Who, in the pulpit or the press, prepare 
The nation's pap. The fiery-footed barb 
That pounds the pampas, and the lily-bells 
That hang above the brooks, present the world 
With no apology for being there, 
And no attempt to justify themselves 
In uselessness. It is enough for God 
That they are beautiful, and hold his thought 
In fine embodiment ; and it shall be 
Enough for me that, in this book of mine, 
I have created somewhat that is strong 
And beautiful, which, if it profit,— well : 
If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful, 
And holds its being by no feebler right.'* 



Ay, it was glorious to find one man 
Who piled no packs upon his Pegasus, 
Nor chained him to a rag- cart, loaded down 



KATHRINA. 265 

With moral frippery, and strings of bells 
To call the people to their windows. 

Then 
There followed extracts, with a change of type 
To mark the places where the editor 
Had caught a fancy hiding, which he feared 
Might slip detection under slower eyes 
Than those he carried ; or to emphasize 
Felicities of diction that were stiff 
In Roman verticals, but grew divine 
At the Italic angle ; then apology, 
Profoundly humble, to his patrons all 
For quoting at such length, and one to me 
For quoting anything, and deep regrets. 
In quite a general way, that lack of space 
Forbade a reproduction of the book 
From title-page to tail-piece, winding up 
With counsel to all lovers of pure art, 
Patrons of genius, all Americans, 
All friends of cis-Atlantic literature. 
To buy the book, and read it for themselves. 

I drank the whole, at one long, luscious draught, 

Tipping the tankard high, that I might see 

My features at the bottom, and regale 

My pride, after my palate. Then I tossed 

The paper to my wife, and bade her read. 

I watched her while she read, but failed to find 

The sympathy of pleasure in her face 

I had expected. Finishing at last. 

She raised her eyes, and, fixing them on me. 

Said thoughtfully : " You like this, I suspect." 

" Well, truly ! " I responded, " since it seems 
12 



266 KATHRINA. 

To be the first installment of the wage 
Which you suggested might come grudgingly. 
Ay, it is sweet to me. I know it fails 
In nice discrimination, — that it slurs 
Defects which I perceive as well as you ; 
But it is kind, and places in best light 
Such excellences as we both may find — 
May claim, indeed." 

*' And yet, it is a lie, 
Or what the editor would call ^ a puff,' 
From first to last. The ' continence,' my dear, 
' Of genius ! ' What of that ? And what about 
The ' manly effort,' for whose exercise 
He thanked you on the world's behalf? And so 
Your nursing, chastening and developing 
Of power ! — Pray what of these ? " 

" Oh ! wife ! " I said, 
" Don't spoil it all ! Be pitiful, my love ! 
I am a baby — granted : so I need 
The touch of tender hands, and something sweet 
To keep me happy." 

" Babies take a bath, 
Sometimes, from which the hand of warmest love 
Filches the chill, and you must have one dash," 
She answered me, '' to close your complement. 
The weakest spot in all your book, he found 
With a quick instinct ; and on that he spent 
His sharpest force and finest rhetoric, 
Shoring and bracing it on every side 
With bold assumptions and affirmatives, 
To blind the eyes of novices, and scare 
With fierce forestallment all the critic -quills 



KATHRINA. 26/ 

Now bristling for their chance. He saw at once 

Your poem had no mission, save, perhaps, 

The tickle of the taste, and that it bore 

Upon its glowing gold small food for life. 

He saw just there the point to be attacked ; 

And there threw up his earth-works, and spread out 

His thorned abattis. He was very kind 

Undoubtedly, and very cunning, too ; 

For well he knew that there are earnest souls 

In the broad world, who claim that highest art 

Is highest ministry to human need ; 

And that the artist has no Christian right 

To prostitute his art to selfish ends, 

Or make it vehicle alone of plums 

For the world's pudding." 



" These will speak in time," 
Responded I; *'but they have not the ear 
Of the broad world, I think. The Christian right 
Of which you speak is hardly recognized 
Among the multitude, or by the guild 
In which I claim a place. The sectaries 
Who furnish folios, quartos, magazines, 
To the religious few, are limited 
In influence ; and these, my wife, are all 
I have to fear ; — nay, could I but arouse 
Their bitter enmity, I might receive 
Such superflux of praise and patronage 
As would o'erwhelm my sweetly Christian wife 
With shame and misery. But we shall see ; 
And, in the meantime, let us be content 
That, if one man shall praise me overmuch, 
Ten, at the least, will fail to render me 
Befitting justice." 



268 KATHRINA. 

As the days went on, 
Reviews and notices came pouring in. 
I was notorious, at least; and fame, 
I whispered comfortably to myself, 
Is only notoriety turned gray, 
With less of fire, if more of steadiness. 
The adverse verdicts were not numerous ; 
And these were rendered, as I fancied then, 
By sanctimonious fools who deemed profane 
All verse outside their thumb-worn hymnodies. 
My book received the rattling fusilade 
Of all the dailies : then the artillery 
Of the hebdomadals, whose noisy shells. 
Though timed by fuse to burst on Saturday, 
Exploded at the middle of the week ; 
And last, a hundred-pounder quarterly 
Gave it a single missive from its mask 
Of far and dark impersonality. 
The smoke cleared up, and still my colors flew, 
And still my book stood proudly in the sun. 
Nor breached nor battered. 

I had won a place 
That I was sure of. All had said of me 
That I was '' briUiant : " was not that enough? 
The petty pesterers, with card and stamp. 
Who hunt for autographs, were after me, 
In packages by post ; and idle men 
Held me at corners by the button-hole. 
And introduced me to their friends. I dined 
With meek-eyed men, whose literary wives 
Were dying all to know me, as they said ; 
And the lyceums, quick at scent and sight — 
Watching the jungles for a lion — all 
Courted the delectation of my roar 



KATHRINA. 269 

Upon their platforms, pledging to my hand 
(With city reference to stan chest names), 
Such honoraria as would have been 
The lion's share of profits. These were straws ; 
But they had surer fingers for the wind 
Than withes or weathercocks. 

The book sold well. 
My publisher (who published at my risk, 
And first put on the airs of one who stooped 
To grant a favor), brimmed and overflowed 
With courtesy ; and ere a year was gone, 
Became importunate for something more. 
This was his plea : I owed it to myself 
To write again. The time to make one's hay 
Is when the sun shines : time to write one's books 
Is when the public humor turns to them. 
The public would forget me in a year, 
And seek another idol ; or, meanwhile, 
Another writer might usurp my throne, 
And I be hooted from my own domain 
As a pretender. Then the market's maw 
Was greedy for my poems. Just how long 
The appetite would last, he could not tell, 
For appetite is subject of caprice. 
And never lasts too long. 

The man was wise, 
I plainly saw, and gave me the results 
Of observation and experience. 
I took his hint, accepting with a pang 
The truths that came with it : for instance, these : — 
That he who speaks for praise of those who live. 
Must keep himself before his audience. 
Nor look for "bravas," cheers, and cries of "hear!" 



270 KATHRINA. 

And clap of hands and stamp of feet, except 

With fresh occasion ; that applause of crowds, 

Though fierce, runs never to the chronic stage; 

That good paymasters, having paid for work 

The doer's price, expect receipt in full 

At even date ; and that if I would keep 

My place, as grand purveyor to the greed 

For novelties of literary art, ^ 

My viands must be sapid, and abound 

With change, to wake or whet the appetite 

I sought to feed. 

I say I took his hint. 
Bestowed in selfishness, without a doubt, 
Though in my interest. For ten long years 
It was the basis of my policy. 
I poured my poems with redundancy 
Upon the world, and won redundant meed. 
If I gave much, the world was generous, 
Repaying more than justice: but, at last. 
Tired and disgusted, I laid down my pen. 
I knew my work would not outlast my life, 
That the enchantments which had wreathed themselves 
Around my name were withering away. 
With every breath of fragrance they exhaled ; 
And that, too soon, the active brain and hand 
Whose skill had conjured them, would faint and fail 
Under the press of weariness and years. 
My reputation piqued me. None believed 
That it was in me to write otherwise 
Than I had written. All the world had laughed, 
Or shaken its wise head, had I essayed 
A work beyond the round of brilliancies 
In which my pen had reveled, and for which 
It gave such princely guerdon. If I looked, 



KATHRINA. 2/1 

Or came to look, with measureless contempt 
On those who gave with such munificence 
The boon I sought, I had provoking cause. 
I fooled them all with patent worthlessness. 
And they insisted I should fool them still. 
The wisdom of a whole decade had failed 
To teach them that the thing my hand had done 
Was not worth doing. 

More and worse than this ; 
I found my character and self-respect 
Eroded by the canker of conceit, 
Poisoned by jealousy, and made the prey 
Of meanest passions. Harlequins in mask. 
Who live upon the laughter of the throng 
That crowds their reeking amphitheaters ; 
Light-footed dancing-girls, who sell their grace 
To gaping lechers of the pit, to win 
That which shall feed their shameless vanity ; 
The mimics of the buskin — baser still. 
The mimics of the negro — minstrel-bands. 
With capital of corks and castanets 
And threadbare jests — Ah ! who and what was I 
But brother of all these — in higher walk, 
But brother in the motive of my life, 
In jealousy, in recompense for toil. 
And, last, in destiny ? 

My wife had caught 
Stray silver in her hair in these long years ; 
And the sweet maiden springing from our lives 
Had grown to womanhood. In my pursuits, 
Which drank my time and my vitality, 
I had neglected them. I worked at home. 
But lived in other scenes, for other lives, 



2/2 KATHRINA. 

Or, rather, for my own ; and though my pride 
Shrank from the deed, I had the tardy grace 
To call them to me, and confess my shame, 
And beg for their forgiveness. 

Once again — 
All explanations passed — I sat beside 
My faithful wife, and canvassed as of old 
New plans of life. I found her still the same 
In purpose and in magnanimity ; 
For she dealt no upbraidings and no blame; 
Cast in my teeth no old-time prophecies 
Of failure ; felt no triumph which rejoiced 
To mock me with the words, " I told you so." 
Calmly she sat, and tried, with gentlest speech, 
To heal the bruises of my fall ; to wake 
A better feeling in me toward the world, 
And soothe my morbid self-contempt. 

The world, 
She said, is apt to take a public man 
At his own estimate, and yield him place 
According to his choice. I had essayed 
To please the world, and gather in its praise ; 
And, certainly, the world was pleased with me. 
And had not stinted me in its return 
Of plauditory payment. As the world 
Had taken me according to my rate. 
And filled my wish, it had a valid claim 
On my good nature. 

Then, beyond all this. 
The world was not a fool. Those books of mine. 
That I had come to look upon as trash, 
Were not all trash. My motive had been poor. 



KATHRINA. 273 

And that had vitiated them for me ; 

But there was much in them that yielded strength 

To strugghng souls, and, to the wounded, balm. 

Indeed, she had been helped by them, herself. 

They were all pure ; they made no foul appeal 

To baseness and brutality ; they had 

An element of gentle chivalry, 

Such as must have a place in any man 

Shrinking with sensitiveness, like myself, 

From a fine reputation, scorning it 

For motive which had won it. 

Words like these, 
From lips like hers, were needed medicine. 
They clarified my weak and jaundiced sight. 
And helped to juster vision of the world, 
And of myself. But there was no return 
Of the old greed ; and fame, which I had learned 
To be an entity quite different 
From my conceit of it in other days. 
Was something much too far and nebulous 
To be my star of life. 

" You have some plan ? " — 
Statement and query in same words, which fell 
From lips that sought to rehabilitate 
My will and self-respect. 

" I have," I said. 

" Else you were dead," responded she. " To live, 
Men must have plans. When these die out of men 
They crumble into chaos, or relapse 
Into inanity. Will you reveal 
These plans of yours to me ? " 
12* 



2/4 KATHRINA. 

'' Ay, if I can," 
I answered her ; *' but first I must reveal 
The base on which I build them. I have tried 
To find the occasion of my discontent, 
And find it, as I think, just here ; in quest 
Of popularity, I have become 
Untrue both to myself and to my art. 
I have not dared to speak the royal truth 
For fear of censure ; I have been a slave 
To men's opinions. What is best in me 
Has been debauched by the pursuit of praise 
As life's best prize. Conviction, sentiment, 
All love and hate, all sense of right and wrong, 
I have held in abeyance, or compelled 
To work in menial subservience 
To my grand purpose. If my sentiment 
Or my conviction were but popular. 
It flowed in hearty numbers : otherwise, 
It slept in silence. 



" Now as to my art : 
I find that it has suffered like myself, 
And suffered from same cause. My verse has been 
Shaped evermore to meet the people's thought. 
That which was highest, grandest in my art 
I have not reached, and have not tried to reach. 
I have but touched the surfaces of things 
That meet the common vision ; and my art 
Has only aimed to clothe them gracefully 
With fancy's gaudy fabrics, or portray 
Their patent beauties and deformities. 
Above the people in my gift and art. 
Both gift and art have had a downward trend 
And both are prostitute. 



KATHRINA. 2/5 

" Discarding praise 
As motive of my labor, I confess 
My sins against my art, and so, henceforth, 
As to my goddess, give myself to her. 
The chivalry which you are pleased to note 
In me and works of mine, turns loyally 
To her and to her service. Nevermore 
Shall pen of mine demean itself by work 
That serves not first, and with supreme intent, 
The art whose slave it is." 

" I understand, 
I think, the basis of your plan," she said ; 
" And e'en the plan itself. You now propose 
To write without remotest reference 
To the world's wishes, prejudices, needs. 
Or e'en the world's opinions, — quite content 
If the world find aught in you to applaud ; 
Quite as content if it condemn. With full 
Expression of yourself in finest terms 
And noblest forms of art, so far as God 
Has made you masterful, you give yourself 
Up to yourself and to your art. Is this 
Fair statement of your purpose ? " 

''Not unfair," 
I answered. "Tell me what you think of it." 

" Suppose," she said, " that all the artist-souls 

That God has made since time and art began 

Had acted on your theory : suppose 

In architecture, picture, poetry, 

Naught had found utterance but works that sprang 

To satisfy the worker, and reveal 

That bundle of ideas which, to him, 



2/6 KATHRINA. 

Is constituted art ; but which, in truth, 

Is figment of his fancy, or his thought, — 

His creature, made his God — say where were all 

The temples, palaces and homes of men ; 

The galleries that blaze with history, 

Or bloom with landscape, or look down 

With smile of changeless love or loveliness 

Into the hearts of men ? And where were all 

The poems that give measure to their praise, 

Voice to their aspirations, forms of light 

To homely facts and features of their hfe, 

Enveloping this plain, prosaic world 

In an ideal atmosphere, in which 

Fair angels come and go ? All gifts of men 

Were made for use, and made for highest use. 

If highest use be service of one's self. 

And highest standard, one's embodiment 

Of dogmas, theories and thoughts of art, 

As art's identity, then are you right ; 

But if a higher use of gift and art 

Be service of mankind, and higher rule 

God's regal truth, revealed in words or worlds. 

And verified by life, then are you wrong." 

"But art?" — responded I — "you do not mean 

That art is nothing but a thing of thought. 

Or, less than that, of fancy ? Nay, I claim 

That it is somewhat — a grand entity — 

An organism of lofty principles. 

Informed with subtlest life, and clothed upon 

With usage and tradition of the men 

Who, working in those sunny provinces 

Where it holds eminent domain, have brought 

To build its temple and adorn its walls 

The usufruct of countless lives. So far 



KATHRINA. 277 

Is art from being creature of man's thought 

That it is subject of his knowledge — stands 

In mighty mystery, and challenges 

The study of the world ; rules noblest minds 

Like law or like religion ; is a power 

To which the proudest artist-spirits bow 

With humblest homage. Is astronomy 

The creature of man's thought ? Is chemistry ? 

Yet these hold not, in this our universe, 

A form more definite, nor yet a place 

In human knowledge more beyond dispute, 

Than art itself. To this embodiment 

Of theory — of dogmas, if you will — 

This body aggregate of truth revealed 

In growing light of ages to the eyes 

Touched to perception, I devote my life." 

*' Nay, you're too fast," she said : "let alchemy 

And old astrology present your thought. 

These were somewhat ; these were grand entities ; 

But they went out like candles in thin air 

When knowledge came. The sciences are things 

Of law, of force, relations, measurements, 

Affinities and combinations, all 

The definite, demonstrable effects 

Of first and second causes. Between these 

And men's opinions, braced by usages. 

The space is wide. The thing which you call art, 

Is anything but definite in form. 

Or fixed in law. It has as many shapes 

As worshipers. The world has many books, 

Written by earnest men, about this art ; 

But having read them, we are no more wise 

Than he whose observation of the sun 

Is taken by kaleidoscope. The more 



2/8 KATHRINA. 

He sees in it, the more he is confused. 
The sun works, doubtless, many fine effects 
With what he sees, but he sees not the sun." 

*' But art is art," I said. '^ You'd cheat my sense, 
And mock my reason too. Ay, art is art. 
Things must have being that have history." 

Then she : " Yes, politics has history. 

And therefore has a being, — has, in truth, 

Just such a being as I grant to art — 

A being of opinions. Every state 

Has origin and ends of government 

Peculiarly its own, and so, from these. 

Constructs its theory of politics. 

And holds this theory against the world; 

And holds it well. There is no fixedness 

Or form of politics for all mankind ; 

And there is none of art. Each artist-soul 

Is its own law ; and he who dares to bring 

From work of other man, to lay on yours. 

His square and compass — thus declaring him 

The pattern man — and tells, by him, you lack 

Just so much here, or wander so much there. 

Thereby confesses just how much he lacks 

Of wisdom and plain sense. For every man 

Has special gift of power and end of hfe. 

No man is great who lives by other law 

Than that which wrapped his genius at his birth. 

The Lind is great because she is the Lind, 

And not the Malibran. Recorded art 

Is yours to study — e'en to imitate. 

In education — imitate or shun. 

As the case warrants ; but it has destroyed. 

Or toned to commonplace, more gifts of God 



KATHRINA. 2/9 

Than it has ever fanned to life or fed. 

Who never walks save where he sees men's tracks 

Makes no discoveries. Show me the man 

Who, leaving God and nature and himself, 

Sits at the feet of masters, stuffs his brain 

With maxims, notions, usages and rules. 

And 'yields his fancy up to leading-strings. 

And I shall see a man who never did 

A deed worth doing. So, in the name of art — 

Nay, in the name of God — do no such thing 

As smutch your knees by bowing at a shrine, 

Whose doubtful deity, in midst of dust. 

Sits in the cast-off robes of devotees. 

And lives on broken victuals ! " 

" Drive, my dear ! 
Drive on, and over me ! You're on the old 
High-stepping horse to-night ; so give him rein. 
For exercise is good," I said, in mirth. 
" You sit your courser finely. I confess 
I'm very proud of you, and too much pleased 
With your accomplishments to check your speed. 
Drive on, my love ! drive on ! " 

" I thank you, sir ! 
No one so gracious as your grudging man 
Under compulsion ! With your kind consent 
I'll ride a little further," she replied, — 
" For I enjoy it quite as much as you — 
The more because you've given me little chance 

In these last years Now, soberly, this art — 

Of which we talk so much, without the power 
To tell exactly what we understand 
By the hack term — suppose we take the word, 
And try to find its meaning. You recall 



28o KATHRINA. 

Old John who dressed the borders in our court : 

You called him, hired him, told him what to do. 

He and his rake stood interposed between 

You and your work. You chose his skillful hands, 

Endowing them with pay, or pledge of pay, 

And set him at his labor. Now suppose 

Old John had had a philosophic turn 

After you left him, and had thought like this : 

' I am called here to do a certain work — 

My rake tells what ; and he who called me here 

Has given me the motive for the job. 

The work is plain. These borders are to be 

Leveled and cleaned of weeds : my hand and rake 

Are fitted for the service; — this my art; 

And it is first of all the arts. There's none 

More ancient, useful, worshipful, indeed, 

Than agriculture. Adam practiced it ; 

Poets have sung its praises ; and the great 

Of every age have loved and honored it. 

This art is greater than the man I serve, 

And greater than his borders. Therefore I 

Will serve my art, and let the borders lie, 

And my employer whistle. True to that, 

And to myself, it matters not to me 

What weeds may grow, or what the master think 

Of my proceeding ! ' 

" So, intent on this. 
He hangs his rake upon your garden wall, 
And steals your clematis, with which to wind 
The handle upward ; then o'erfills his hands 
With roses and geraniums, and weaves 
Their beauty into laurel, for a crown 
For his slim god, completing his devoir 
By buttering the teeth, and kneeling down 



KATHRINA. 28 1 

In abject homage. Pray, what would you say, 

At close of day, when you should go to see 

Your untouched borders, and your gardener 

At genuflexion, with your mignonnette 

In every button-hole ? Remember, now, 

He has been true to art and to himself, 

According to his notion ; nor forget 

To take along a dollar for his hire. 

Which he expects, of course ! What would you say ? " 

''Oh, don't mind that: you've reached your 'fifthly' now, 
And here the ' application ' comes," I said. 

" I think," responded she, with an arch smile, 

*' The apphcation's needless : but you men 

Are so obtuse, when will is in the way. 

That I will do your bidding. Every gift 

That God bestows on men holds in itself 

The secret of its office, like the rake 

The gardener wields. The rake was made to till — 

Was fashioned, head and handle, for just that ; 

And if, by grace of God, you hold a gift 

So fashioned and adapted, that it stands 

In like relation of supremest use 

To life of men, the office of your gift 

Has perfect definition. Gift like this 

Is yours, my husband. In your facile hands 

God placed it for the service of himself, 

In service of your kind. Taking this gift, 

And using it for God and for the world. 

In your own way, and in your own best way ; 

Seeking for light and knowledge everywhere 

To guide your careful hand ; and opening wide 

To spiritual influx all your soul, 

That so your master may breathe into you, . 



i 



282 KATHRINA. 

And breathe his great life through you, in such forms 

Of pure presentment as he gives you skill 

To build withal — that's all of art — for you. 

Art is an instrument, and not an end — a^ 

A servant, not a master, nor a God 

To be bowed down to. Shall we worship rakes ? 

Honor of art, by him whose work is art, 

Is a fine passion ; but he honors most 

Whose use and end are best." 

" Use ! Use ! Use ! " 
I cried impatiently ; — " nothing but use ! 
As if God never made a violet. 
Or hung a harebell, or in kindling gold 
Garnished a sunset, or upreared the arch 
Of a bright rainbow, or endowed a world — 
A universe, indeed — stars, firmament, 
The vastitudes of forest and of sea, 
Swift brooks and sweeping rivers, virid meads 
And fluff of breezy hills — with tints that range 
The scale of spectral beauty, till they leave 
No glint or glory of the changeful light 
Without a revelation ! Is this use — 
I beg your pardon, love : you say ' this art ' — 
The sum and end of art ? If it be so, 
Then God's no artist. Are the crystal brooks 
Sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes 
That dip their beaded muzzles in the foam ? 
Burns the tree better that its leaves are green ? 
Sleeps the sun sounder under canopy 
Of gold or rose ? " 

** Yet beauty has its use/* 
Responded she. " Whatever elevates, 
Inspires, refreshes, any human soul, 



KATHRINA. 283 

Is useful to that soul. Beauty has use 

For you and me. The dainty violet 

Blooms in our thought, and sheds its fragrance there ; 

And we are gainers through its ministry. 

All God's great values wear the drapery 

That most becomes them. Beauty may, in truth, 

Be incident of art and not be end — 

Its form, condition, features, dress, and still 

The humblest value of the things of art. 

This truth obtains in all God's artistry. 

Does God make beauty for himself, alone ? 

He is, and holds, all beauty. Has he need 

To kindle rushes that he may behold 

The glory of his thoughts ? or need to use 

His thoughts as plasms for the amorphous clay 

That he may study models ? For an end 

Outside himself, he ever speaks himself ; 

And end, with him, is use." 

*' Well, I confess 
There's truth in what you utter," I replied ; — 
*' A modicum of truth, at least ; and still 
There's something more which this our subtle talk 
Has failed to give us. I will not affirm 
That art, recorded in its thousand forms. 
And clothed with usages, traditions, rules, — 
The thing of history — the mighty pile 
Of drift that sweep of ages has brought down 
To heap the puzzled present — is the sum 
And substance of all art. I will not claim — 
Nay, mark me now — I will not even claim 
That beauty is art's end, or has its end 
Within itself. Our tedious colloquy 
Has cleared away the rubbish from my thought, 
And given me cleaner vision. I can see 



284 KATHRINA. 

Before, around me, underneath, above. 

The great unrealized ; and while I bow 

To the traditions and the things of art, 

And hold my theories, I find myself 

Inspired supremely by the Possible 

That calls for revelation — by the forms 

That sleep imprisoned in the snowy arms 

Of still unquarried truth, or stretch their hands 

At sound of sledge and drill and booming fire, 

Imploring for release. I turn from men, 

And stretch my hands toward these. I feel — I know — 

That there are mighty myriads waiting there, 

And listening for my steps. Suppose my age 

Should fail to give them welcome : ay, suppose 

They may not help a man to coin a dime 

Or cook a dinner : they will fare as well 

As much of God's truth fares, though clothed in forms 

Divinely chosen. Does God ever stint 

His utterance because no creature hears ? 

Is it a grand and goodly thing, to spend 

Brave life and precious treasure in a search 

For palpitating water at the pole, 

That so the sum of knowledge may be swelled, 

Though pearls are not increased ; and something less 

To probe the Possible in art, or sit 

Through months of dreary dark to catch a glimpse 

Of the live truth that quivers with the jar 

Of movement at its axle ? Is it good 

To garner gain beyond the present need, 

Won by excursive commerce in all seas ; 

And something less to pile redundantly 

The spoil of thought ? " 

" These latest words of yours," 
She answered musingly, " impress me much ; 



KATHRINA. 28') 

And yet, I think I see where they will lead. 

Or, rather, fail to lead. Your fantasy 

Is beautiful but vague. The Possible 

Is a vast ocean, from which one poor soul, 

With its slight oars, can float but flimsy freight ; 

Yet I would help your courage, for I see 

Where your sole motive lies. Go on, and prove 

Whether your scheme or mine holds more of good ; 

And take my blessing with you." 

Then she rose, 
And kissed my forehead. Looking in her face, 
By the sharp light that touched her, I was thrilled 
By her flushed cheeks and strangely lustrous eyes. 
She spoke not ; but I heard the sigh she breathed— 
The long-drawn, weary sigh — as she retired ; 
And then the Possible, which had inspired 
So wondrously my hope, drooped low around, 
And filled me with foreboding. 

Had her life 
Been chilled by my neglect ? Was it on wane ? 
Could she be lost to me ? Oh ! then I felt, 
As I had never felt before, how mean 
Beside one true affection is the best 
Of all earth's prizes, and how little worth 
The world would be without her love — herself! 



But sleep refreshed her, and next morn she sat 
At our bright board, in her accustomed place ; 
And sunlight was not sweeter than her smile, 
Or cheerfuller. My quick fears died away ; 
And though I saw that she had lost the fire 
Of her young life, I comforted myself 



286 KATHRINA. 

With thinking that it was the same with me — 
The sure result of years. 

My time I gave 
To my new passion, rioting at large 
In the fresh realm of fancy and of thought 
To which the passion bore me, and from which 
I strove to gather for embodiment 
Material of art. 

The more I dreamed, 
The broader grew my dream. The further on 
My footsteps pushed, the brighter grew the light; 
Till, half in terror, half in reverence, 
I learned that I had broached the Infinite ! 
I had not thought my Possible could bear 
Such name as this, or wear such attribute ; 
And shrank befitting distance from the front 
Of awful secrets, hid in awful flame, 
That scorched and scared me. 

So, more humble grown, 
And less adventurous, I chose, at last. 
My theme and vehicle of song, and wrote. 
My faculties, grown strong and keen by use, 
Bent to their task with earnest faithfulness. 
And glowed with high endeavor. All of power 
I had within me flowed into my hand ; 
And learning, language — all my life's resource — 
Lay close around my enterprise, and poured 
Their hoarded wealth of imagery and words 
Faster than I could use it. For long weeks, 
My ardent labor crowded all my days. 
Invaded sleep, and haunted e'en my dreams : 
And then the work was done. 



KATIIRINA. 287 

I left it there, 
And sought for recreative rest in scenes 
That once had charmed me — in society 
Where I was welcome : but the common talk 
Of daily news — of politics and trade — 
Was senseless as the chatter of the jays 
In autumn forests. No refreshing balm 
Came to me in the sympathy of men. 
In my retirement, I had left the world 
To go its way ; and it had gone its way, 
And left me hopelessly. 

I told my wife 
Of my dissatisfaction and disgust, 
But found small comfort in her words. She said: 
" The world is wide, and woman's vision short; 
But I have never seen a man who turned 
His efforts from his kind, and failed to spoil 
All men for him— himself, indeed, for them ; 
And he who gives nor sympathy nor aid 
To the poor race from which he seeks such boon 
Must be rejoiced if it be generous ; 
Content, if it be just. Society 
Is a grand scheme of service and return. 
We give and take ; and he who gives the most. 
In ways directest, wins the best reward." 

By purpose, I closed eyes upon my work 

For many weeks, resisting every day 

The impulse to review the glowing dream 

My fancy had engendered : for I wished 

To go with faculty and fancy cooled 

To its perusal. I had strong desire. 

So far as in mc lay, to see the work 

With the world's eyes, for reasons— ah ! I shrink 



ZSS KATHRINA. 

From writing them ! All men are sometimes weak. 
And some are inconsistent with their wills. 
If I were one of these, think not I failed 
To justify my weakness to myself, 
In ways that saved my pride. 



Yet this was true : 
I had an honest wish to learn how far 
My work of heat had power to re-inspire 
The soul that wrought it, and how well my verse 
Had clothed and kept the creature of my thought ; 
For memory still retained the loveliness 
That filled the fresh conceit. 



When, in good time, 
Rest and diversion had performed their work, 
And the long fever of my brain was gone, 
I broached my feast, first making fast my door, 
That so no eye should mark my greedy joy 
Or my grimaces, — doubtful of the fate 
That waited expectation. 



It were vain 
To try, in these tame words, to paint the pang. 
The faintness and the chill, which overwhelmed 
My disappointed heart. My welded thoughts 
Which, in their whitest heat, had bent and bound 
My language to themselves, imparting grace 
To stiffest words, and meanings fresh and fine 
To simplest phrases, interfusing all 
With their own ardency, and shining through 
With smoothly rounded beauty, lay in heaps 



KATHRINA. 289 

Of cold, unmeaning ugliness. My words 
Had shrunk to old proportions, and stood out 
In hard, stiff angles, challenging a guess 
Of what they covered. 



Meaningless to me, 
Who knew the meaning that had once informed 
Its faithless numbers, what way could I hope 
That, to my own, or any future age. 
My work should speak its full significance ? 
My latest child, begot in manly joy. 
Conceived in purity, and born in toil. 
Lay dead before me, — dead, and in the shroud 
My hopeful hands had woven and bedecked 
To be its chrisom. 



Then the first I learned 
Where language finds its bound — learned that beyond 
The range of human commerce, save by force, 
It never moves, nor lingers in the realm 
It thus invades, a moment, if the voice 
Of human commerce speak not the demand ; — 
That language is a thing of use ; — that thought 
Which seeks a revelation, first must seek 
Adjustment in the scale of human need, 
Or find no fitting vehicle. 



And more : 
That the great Possible which lies outside 
The range of commerce is identical 
With the stupendous Infinite of God, 
Which only comes in glimpses, or in hints 
«3 



290 KATHRINA. 

Of vague significance, so dim, so vast. 
That subtlest, most prehensile language, shrinks 
From plucking of its robes, the while they sweep 
The perfumed air ! 

I closed my manuscript. 
And locked it in my desk. Then stealing forth, 
I sought the bustle of the street, to drown 
In the great roar of careless toil, the pain 
That brings despair. My last resource was gone ; 
And as I brooded o'er the awful blank 
Of hopeless life that waited for my steps, 
A fear which I had feared to entertain 
Found entrance to my heart, and held it still, 
Almost to bursting. 

Not alone my life 
Was sliding from me ; for my better life, 
My pearl of price, the jewel in my crown. 
My wife Kathrina, growing lovelier 
With every passing day, arose each morn 
From wasting dreams to paler loveliness, 
And sank in growing weariness each night, 
And hotter hectic, to her welcome bed. 
Her bed ! The sweet, the precious nuptial bed ! 
Bed sanctified by love ! Bed blest of God 
With fruit immortal ! Bed too soon to be 
Crowned with the glory of a Christian death ! 
Ah God ! How it brought back the agony, 
And the rebellious hate of other years — 
The hopeless struggle of my will with Him 
Whose will is law 1 

Thus torn with mingled thoughts 
Of fear, despair and spite, I wore away 



KATHRINA. 29 1 

Miles of wild wandering about the streets, 
Till weariness at last compelled my feet 
To drag me to my home. 

Before my door 
Stood the familiar chair of one whose call 
Was ominous of ill. My heart grew sick 
With flutter of foreboding and foredoom ; 
But in swift silence I flew up the steps, 
And, blind with stifled frenzy, reached the side 
Of my poor wife. She smiled at seeing me, 
But I could only kneel, and bathe her hands 
With tears and kisses. In her gentle breast — 
True home of love, and love and home to me — 
The blood had burst its walls, and flowed in flame 
From lips it left in ashes. 

In her smile 
Of perfect trustfulness, I caught first glimpse 
Of that aureola of fadeless light 
Which spans my lonely couch, and kindles hope 
That when my time shall come to follow her. 
My spirit may go out, enwreathed and wrapped 
By the familiar glory, which to-night 
Shall brood o'er all my vigils and my dreams ! 



DESPAIR. 



Ah ! what is so dead as a perished delight ! 

Or a passion outlived ! or a scheme overthrown ! 
Save the bankrupt heart it has left in its flight, 

Still as quick as the eye, but as cold as a stone ! 

The honey-bee hoards for its winter-long need, 
The treasure it gathers in joy from the flowers ; 

And drinks in each sip of its silvery mead 

The flavor and flush of the sweet summer hours. 

But a pleasure expires at its earliest breath : 
No labor can hoard it, no cunning can save ; 

For the song of its life is the sigh of its death. 
And the sense it has thrilled is its shroud and its grave, 

Ah ! what is our love, with its tincture of lust. 

And its pleasure that pains us and pain that endears. 

But joy in an armful of beautiful dust 

That crumbles, and flies on the wings of the years ? 

And what is ambition for glory and power, 
But desire to be reckoned the uppermost fool 

Of a million of fools, for a pitiful hour. 
And be cursed for a tyrant, or kicked for a tool? 



294 KATHRINA. 

Nay, what is the noblest that art can achieve, 
But to conjure a vision of light to the eyes, 

That will pale ere we paint it, and pall ere we leave 
On the heart it betrays and the hand it defies ? 

We love, and we long with an infinite greed 

For a love that will fill our deep longing, in vain ; 

The cup that we drink of is pleasant, indeed, 
Yet it holds but a drop of the heavenly rain 

We plan for our powers the divinest we can ; 

We do with our powers the supremest we may ; 
And, winning or losing, for labor and plan 

The best that we garner is — rest and decay ! 

Content — satisfaction — who wins them ? Look down ! 

They are held without thought by the dolts and the 
drones : 
'Tis the slave who in carelessness carries the crown ; 

And the hovels have kinglier men than the thrones. 

The maid sings of love to the hum of her wheel ; 

And her lover responds as he follows his team ; 
They wed, and their children come quickly to seal 

In fulfillment the pledge of their loftiest dream. 

With humblest ambitions and homeliest fare, 
Contented, though toiling, they travel abreast. 

Till the kind hand of death lifts their burden of care. 
And they sink, in the faith of their fathers, to rest. 

Did I beg to be born ? Did I seek to exist ? 

Did I bargain for promptings to loftier gains ? 
Did I ask for a brain, with contempt of the fist 

That could win a reward for its labor and pains ? 



KATHRINA. 295 

Was it kind — the strong promise that girded my youth ? 

Was it good — the endowment of motive and skill ? 
Was it well to succeed, when success was, in truth, 

But the saddest of failure ? Make answer, who will ! 

Do I rave without reason? Why, look you, I pray! 

I have won all I sought of the highest and best ; 
But it brings me no guerdon ; and hopeless, to-day, 

I am poorer than when I set out on the quest. 

Oh ! emptiness ! Life, what art thou but a lie. 

Which I greeted and honored with hopefulest trust ? 

Bah ! the beautiful apples that tempted my eye 
Break dead on my tongue into ashes and dust ! 

*' A Father who loves all the children of men"? 

"A future to fill all these bottomless gaps"? 
But one life has failed : can I fasten again 

With my faith and my hope to a specious Perhaps ? 

O ! man who begot me ! O ! woman who bore ! 

Why, why did you call me to being and breath ? 
With ruin behind me, and darkness before, 

I have nothing to long for, or live for, but death ! 



PART IV. 

CONSUMMATION. 

A GUEST was in my house — a guest unbid — 

Who stayed without a welcome from his host,-^ 

So loathed and hated, on such errand bent, 

And armed with such resistless power of ill, 

I dared not look him in the face. I heard 

His tireless footsteps in the lonely halls, 

In the chill hours of night ; and, in the day. 

They climbed the stairs, or loitered through the roome 

With lawless freedom. Ever when I turned 

I caught a glimpse of him. His shadow stalked 

Between me and the light, and fled before 

My restless feet, or followed close behind. 

Whene'er I bent above the couch that held 

My fading wife, though looking not, I knew 

That he was bending from the other side, 

And mocking me. 

Familiar grown, at last, 
He came more closely — came and sat with me 
Through hours of revery ; or, as I paced 
My dimly-lighted room, slipped his lank arm 
Through mine, and whispered in my shrinking ear 
Such fearful words as made me sick and cold. 
13* 



298 KATHRINA. 

He took the vacant station at my board, 
Sitting where she had sat, and mixed my cup 
With poisoned waters, saying in low tones 
That none but I could hear : 

" This little room, 
Where you have breakfasted and dined and supped, 
And laughed and chatted in the days gone by, 
Will be a lonely place when we are gone. 
Those roses at the window, that were wont 
To bloom so freely with the lady's care, 
Already miss her touch. That ivy-vine 
Has grown a yard since it was tied, and needs 
A training hand." 

Rising with bitter tears 
To flee his presence, he arose with me. 
And wandered through the rooms. 

" This casket here" — 
I heard him say : " Suppose we loose the clasp. 
These are her jewels — pretty gifts of yours. 
There is a diamond : there a string of pearls. 
That paly opal holds a mellowed fire 
Which minds me of the mistress, whose bright soul 
Glows through the lucent whiteness of her face 
With lambent flicker. These are legacies : 
She will not wear them more. Her taste and mine 
Are one in this, that both of us love flowers. 
Ay, she shall have them, too, some pleasant day. 
When she goes forth with me ! 

" So ? what is this ? 
Her wardrobe ! Let the door be opened wide ! 
This musk, so blent with scent of violets, 



KATHRINA. 299 

Revives one. You remember when she wore 
That lavender ? — a very pretty silk ! 
Here is a moire antique. Ah ! yes — I see ? 
You did not like her in it. 'Twas too old, 
And too suggestive of the dowager. 
There is your favorite — that glossy blue — 
The sweet tint stolen from the skies of June — 
But she is done with it. I wonder who 
Will wear it, when your grief shall find a pause ! 
Your daughter — possibly ? . . . You shiver, sir ! 
Is it the velvet ? Like a pall, you think ! 
Well, close the door ! 

"Those slippers on the rugs 
The time will come when you will kiss their soles 
For the dear life that pressed them. Their rosettes 
Will be more redolent than roses then. 
You did not know how much you loved your wife ? 
I thought so ! 

*' This way ! Let us take our stand 
Beside her bed. Not quite so beautiful 
To your fond eyes as when she was a bride. 
Though still a lovely woman ! Seems it strange 
That she is yours no longer ? — that her hand 
Is given to another — to the one 
For whom she has been waiting all her life, 
And ready all her life ? Your power is gone 
To punish rivals. There you stand and weep, 
But dare not lift a finger, while with smiles 
And kindly welcome she extends her hands 
To greet her long-expected. friend. She knows 
Where I will take her — to what city of God, 
What palace there, and what companionship. 
She knows what robes will drape her loveliness, 



300 KATHRINA. 

What flowers bedeck her hair, and rise and fall 

Upon the pulses of her happy breast. 

And you, poor man ! with all your jealous pride, 

Have learned that she would turn again to you, 

And to your food and furniture of life, 

With disappointment. 

" Ay, she pities you — 
Loves you, indeed ; but there is One she loves 
With holier passion, and with more entire 
And gladder self- surrender. She will go — 
You know that she will go — and go with joy ; 
And you begin to see how poor and mean, 
When placed beside her joy, are all your gifts, 
And all that you have won by them. 

" Poor man • 
Weeping again! Well, if it comfort you. 
Rain your salt tears upon her waxen hands. 
And kiss them dry at leisure ! Press her lips. 
Hot with the hectic ! Lay your cold, wet cheek 
Against the burning scarlet of her own : 
Only remember that she is not yours. 
And that your paroxysms of grief and tears 
Are painful to her." 

Ah ! to wait for death ! 
To see one's idol with the signature 
Of the Destroyer stamped upon her brow, 
And know that she is doomed, beyond all hope ; 
To watch her while she fades ; to see the form 
That once was Beauty's own become a corpse 
In all but breathing, and to meet her eyes 
A hundred times a day — while the heart bleeds — 
With smiles of smooth dissembling, and with words 



KATHRINA. 30I 

Cheerful as morning, and to do all this 
Through weeks and weary months, till one half longs 
To see the spell dissolved, and feel the worst 
That death can do : can there be misery- 
Sadder than this ? 

My time I passed alone, 
And at the bedside of my dying wife. 
She talked of death as children talk of sleep. 
When — a forgetful blank — it lies between 
Their glad impatience and a holiday. 
The morrow — ah ! the morrow ! That was name 
For hope all realized, for work all done, 
For pain all passed, for life and strength renewed, 
For fruitage of endeavor, for repose, 
For heaven ! 

What would the morrow bring to me? 
The morrow — ah ! the morrow ! It was blank — 
Nay, blank and black with gloom of clouds and night. 
Never before had I so realized 
My helplessness. I could not find relief 
In love or labor. I could only sit, 
And gaze against a wall, without the power 
To pierce or climb. My pride of life was gone. 
My spirit broken, and my strife with God 
Was finished. If I could not look before, 
I dared not look above ; and so, whene'er 
I could forget the present, I went back 
Upon the past. 

One soft June day, my thoughts. 
Touched by some song of bird, or glimpse of green, 
Returned to life's bright morning, and the Junes 



302 KATHRINA. 

That flooded with their wealth of life and song 

The valley of my birth. Again I walked the meads, 

Brilliant with beaded grass, and heard the shrill, 

Sweet jargon of the meadow-birds. Again 

I trod the forest paths, in shade of trees 

With foliage so tender that the sun 

Shot through the soft, thin leaves its virid sheen, 

As through the emerald waters of the sea. 

The scarlet tanager — a flake of fire. 

Blown from the tropic heats upon the breath 

That brought the summer — caught upon a twig, 

Or quenched its glow in some remote recess. 

The springing ferns unfolded at my feet 

Their tan-brown scrolls, the tiny star-flower shone 

Among its leaves ; the insects filled the air 

With a monotonous, reedy resonance 

Of whir and hum, and I sat down again 

Upon a bank, to gather violets. 

From dreams of retrospective joy I woke 

At last, to the quick tinkle of a bell. 

My wife had touched it. She had been asleep, 

And, waking, called me to her side. The note, 

Familiar as the murmur of her voice, 

For the first time was strange. Another bell, 

With other music, rang adown the years 

That lay between me and the golden day 

When, up the mountain-path, I followed far 

The lamb that bore it. All the scene came back 

In a broad flash ; and with it came the same 

Strange apprehension of a mighty change — 

A vague prevision of transition, born 

Of what, I knew not ; on what errand sent, 

I 'could not guess. 



KATHRINA. 303 

I rose upon my feet, 
Responsive to the summons, when I heard, 
Repeated in the ear of memory, 
The words my mother spoke to me that day : 

" My Paul has dimbed the noblest mountain -hight 

In all his little world, and gazed on scenes 

As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. 

I trust he will remember all his life 

That, to his best achievement, and the spot 

Closest to heaven his youthful feet have trod, 

He has been guided by a guileless lamb. 

It is an omen which his mother's heart 

Will treasure with her jewels." 

Had her tongue 
Been moved to prophecy ? Omen of what ? — 
Of a new hight of life to be achieved 
By my lamb's leading ? Ay, it seemed like this ! 
An answer to a thousand prayers, up-breathed 
By her whom I had lost, repeated long 
By her whom I was losing ? Was it this ? 
Thus charged with premonition, when I stepped 
Into the shaded room, my cheeks were pale, 
And every nerve was quivering with the stress 
Of uncontrolled emotion. Ah ! my lamb ! 
How white ! How innocent ! My lamb, my lamb ! 
Even the scarlet ribbon which adorned 
The lambkin of my chase was at her throat. 
Repeated in a bright geranium-flower ! 

" Loop up the curtains, love ! Let in the light!" 
The words came strong and sweet, as if the life 
From which they breathed were at its tidal flood. 
*'Oh! blessed light! " she added, as the sun 



304 KATHRINA. 

Flamed on the velvet roses of the floor, 
And touched to life the pictures on the wall, 
And smote the dusk with bars of amber. 

"Paul!" 

I turned to answer, and beheld a face 
That glowed with a celestial fire like his 
Who talked with God in Sinai. 



" Paul," she said, 
" I have been almost home. I may not tell, 
For language cannot paint, what I have seen. 
The veil was very thin, and I so near, 
I caught the sheen of multitudes, and heard 
Voices that called and answered from afar 
Through spaces inconceivable, and songs 
Whose harmonies responsive surged and sank 
On the attenuate air, till all my soul 
Was thrilled and filled with music, and I prayed 
To be let loose, that I might cast myself 
Upon the mighty tides, and give my life 
To the supernal raptures. Ay, I prayed 
That death might come, and give me my release 
From this poor clay, and that I might be born 
By its last travail into life." 



" Dear wife," I said, 
" You have been wildly dreaming, and your brain. 
Quickened to strange vagaries by disease. 
Has cheated you. You must not talk like this : 
'Twill harm you. I will hold your hand awhile. 
And you shall have repose." 



KATHRINA. 305 

She smiled and said, 
While her eyes shone with an unearthly light : 
" You are not wise, my dear, in things like these. 
The vision was as real as yourself; 
And it will not be long before I go 
To mingle in the life that I have seen. 
I know it, dearest, for she told me this." 

"She told you this?" I said,— "Who told you this? 
Did you hold converse with the multitude ? " 

" Not with the multitude," she answered me ; 

" But while I gazed upon the throng, and prayed 

That death might loose me, there appeared a group 

Of radiant ones behind the filmy veil 

That hung between us, looking helplessly 

Upon my struggle, but with eyes that beamed 

With love ineffable. I knew them too — 

Knew all of them but one — and she the first, 

And sweetest of them all. Pure as the light, 

And beautiful as morning, she advanced ; 

And, at her touch, the veil was parted wide. 

While she passed through, and stood beside my bed. 

She took my hand, she kissed my burning cheek, 

And then, in words that calmed my spirit, said : 

" * Your prayer will soon be answered ; but one prayer, 
Breathed many years by you, and many years 
By one you know not, must be answered first. 
You must go back, though for a little time, 
And reap the harvest of a life. To him 
Whom you and I have loved, say all your heart 
Shall move your lips to speak, and he will hean 
The strength, the boldness, the persuasive power 
Which you may need for this, shall all be yours ; 



3o6 KATHRINA. 

For you shall have the ministry of those 

Whom you have seen. Speak as a dying wife 

Has hberty to speak to him she leaves ; 

And tell him this — that he may know the voice 

That gives you your commission — tell him this : 

The lamb has slipped the leash by which his hand 

Held her in thrall, and seeks the mountain-hight ; 

And he, if he reclaim her to his grasp, 

Must follow where she leads, and kneel at last 

Upon the summit by her side. And more : 

Give him my promise that if he do this, 

He shall receive from that fair altitude 

Such vision of the realm that lies around. 

Cleft by the river of immortal life. 

As shall so lift him from his selfishness, 

And so enlarge his soul, that he shall stand 

Redeemed from all un worthiness, and saved 

To happiness and heaven.' " 

Her words flowed forth 
With the strong utterance, in truth, of one 
Inspired from other worlds; while pale and faint, 
I drank her revelations. Unbelief 
Had given the lie to her abounding faith. 
And held her vision figment of disease. 
Until the message of my mother fell 
Upon my ears. Then overcome, I wept 
With deep convulsions, rose and walked the room, 
Wrung my clasped hands, and cried with choking voice, 
" My mother ! O ! my mother ! " 

"Gently, love! 
For she is with you," said my dying wife. 
" Nay, all of them are with us. This small room 
Is now the gate of heaven ; and you must do 



KATHRINA. 307 

That which befits the presence and the place. 
Come ! sit beside me ; for my time is short, 
And I have much to say. What will you do 
When I am gone ? Will the old life of art 
Content you? Will you fill your waiting time 
With the old dreams of fame and excellence ? " 

*'Alas!" I answered, " I am done with life : 
My life is dead ; and though my hand has won 
All it has striven to win, and all my heart 
In its weak pride has prompted it to seek 
Of love and honor ; though success is mine 
In all my eager enterprise, I know 
My life has been a failure. I am left 
Or shall be left, when you, my love, are gone, 
Without resource — a hopeless, worthless man. 
Longing to hide his shame and his despair 
Within the grave." 

'* I thank thee. Lord ! " she said : 
" So many prayers are answered ! . . . . You knew not 
That I had asked for this. You did not know 
When you were striving with your feeble might 
For the great prizes that beguiled your pride, 
That at the hand of God I begged success. 
Ay, Paul, I prayed that you might gather all 
The good that you have won, and that, at last, 
You might be brought to know the worthlessness 
Of every selfish meed, and feel how weak — 
How worse than helpless — is the highest man 
Who lives within, and labors to, himself. 
Not one of all the prizes you have gained 
Contains the good that lies in your despair." 

*' Teach me," I said, *^ for I am ignorant ; 



308 KATHRINA. 

Lead me, for I am blind. Explain the past, 
With all its errors. Why am I so low. 
And you so high ? " 

She pressed my hand, and said : 
'^ You have been hungry all your life for God, 
And known it not. You lavished first on me 
Your heart's best love. You poured its treasured wealth 
At an unworthy shrine. You made a God 
Of poor mortality ; and when you learned 
Your love was greater than the one you loved — 
The one you worshiped — you invoked the aid 
Of your imagination, to enrich 
Your pampered idol, till at last you bowed 
Before a creature of your thought. You stole 
From excellence divine the grace and good 
That made me worshipful ; and even these 
Palled on your heart at last, and ceased to yield 
The inspiration that you craved. You pined. 
You starved for something infinitely sweet ; 
And still you sought it blindly, wilfully 
In your poor wife, — sought it, and found it not, 
Through wasted years of life. 

" And then you craved 
An infinite return. You asked for more 
Than I could give, although I gave you all 
That woman can bestow on man. You knew 
You held my constant love, unlimited 
Save by the bounds of mortal tenderness ; 
And still you longed for more. Then sprang your scheme 
For finding in the love of multitudes, 
And in their praise, that which had failed in me. 
You wrote for love and fame, and won them both 
By manly striving — won and wore them long. 



KATHRINA. 309 

All good there is in love and praise of men, 
You garnered in your life. On this reward 
You lived, till you were sated, or until 
You learned it bore no satisfying meed — 
Learned that the love of many was not more 
Than love of one. With all my love your own, 
With love and praise of men, your famished soul 
Craved infinite approval — craved a love 
Beyond the love of woman and of man. 

'' Then with new hope, you apotheosized 

Your cherished art, and sought for excellence 

And for your own approval ; with what end, 

Your helplessness informs me. You essayed 

The revelation of the mighty forms 

That dwell in the unrealized. You sought 

To shape your best ideals, and to find 

In the grand scheme your motive and reward. 

All this blind reaching after excellence, 

Was but the reaching of your soul for God. 

Imagination could not touch the hight ; 

And you were baffled. So, you failed to find 

The God your spirit yearned for in your art, 

And failed of self- approval. 

" You have now 
But one resource, — you are shut up to this : 
You must bow down and worship God ; and give 
Your heart to him, accept his love for you, 
And feast your soul on excellence in him. 
So, a new life shall open to your feet, 
Strown richly with rewards ; and when your steps 
Shall reach the river, I will wait for you 
Upon the other shore, and we shall be 
One in the life immortal as in this. 



3IO KATHRINA. 

! Paul I your time is now. I cannot die 
And leave you comfortless. I cannot die 
And enter on the pleasures that I know 
Await me yonder, with the consciousness 
That you are still unhappy." 

All my life 
Thus lay revealed in light which she had poured 
Upon its track. I learned where she had found 
Her peaceful joy, her satisfying good. 
And where, in my rebellious pride of heart. 
Mine had been lost. She, by an instinct sure, 
Or by the grace of Heaven, had in her youth, 
Though sorely chastened, given herself to God ; 
And through a life of saintly purity — 
A life of love to me and love to all — 
Had feasted at the fountain of all love. 
Had worshiped at the Excellence Divine, 
And only waited for my last adieu 
To take her crown. 

I sat like one struck dumb. 

1 knew not how to speak, or what to do. 
She looked at me expectant ; while a thrill 
Of terror shot through all my frame. 

"Alas!" 
She said, " I thought you would be ready now." 



At this, the door was opened silently. 

And our dear daughter stood within the room. 

Alarmed at vision of the sudden change 

That death had wrought upon her mother's face, 

She hastened to her side, and kneeling there, 



KATHRINA. 311 

Bowed on her breast with tears and choking sobs, 
Her heart too full for speech. 

" Be silent, dear ! " 
The dying mother said, resting her hand 
Upon her daughter's head. " Be silent, dear ! 
Your father kneels to pray. Make room for him, 
That he may kneel beside you." 

At her words, 

I was endowed with apprehensions new ; 

And somewhere in my quickened consciousness, 

I felt the presence of her heavenly friends. 

And knew that there were spirits in the room. 

I did not doubt, nor have I doubted since. 

That there were loving witnesses of all 

The scenes enacted round that hallowed bed. 

Ay, and they spoke. Deep in the innermost 

I heard the tender words, '' O ! kneel my son I — '* 

A sweet monition from my mother's lips. 

" Kneel ! kneel ! " It was the echo of a throng. 

*' Kneel ! kneel ! " The gentle mandate reached my heart 
From depths of lofty space. It was the voice 
Of the Good Father. 

From the curtain folds, 
That rustled at the window, in the airs 
That moved with conscious pulse to passing wings. 
Came the same burden "Kneel!" 

"Kneel! kneel! O! kneel!" 
In tones of earnest pleading, came from lips 
Already pinched by death. 



312 KATHRINA. 

A hundred worlds, 
Imposed upon my shoulders, had not bowed 
And crushed me to my knees with surer power. 
The hand that lay upon my daughter's head 
Then passed to mine ; but still my lips were dumb. 

" Pray!" said the spirit of my mother. 

"Prayl" 
The word repeated, came from many lips. 

"Pray!" said the voice of God within my soul; 
While every whisper of the living air 
Echoed the low command. 

"Pray! pray! O! pray!" 
My dying wife entreated, while swift tears 
Slid to her pillow. 

Then the impulse came. 
And I poured out like water all my heart. 
"O! God!" I said, "be merciful to me 
A reprobate ! I have blasphemed thy name, 
Abused thy patient love, and held from thee 
My heart and life ; and now, in my extreme 
Of need and of despair, I come to thee. 

! cast me not away, for here, at last, 
After a life of selfishness and sin, 

1 yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul — 
All that I am, all I can ever be — 
Supremely to thy service. I renounce 

All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise, 
And dedicate the remnant of my power 
To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me ! 
O ! come and comfort me, for I despair ! 



KATHRINA. 313 

Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed I 
Feed me with love, else I shall die of want ! 
Behold ! I empty out my worthlessness, 
And beg thee to come in, and fill my soul 
With thy rich presence. I adore thy love ; 
I seek for thy approval ; I bow down, 
And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme. 
I've tasted of the sweetest that the world 
Can give to me ; and human love and praise, 
And all of excellence within the scope 
Of my conception, and my power to reach 
And realize in highest forms of art, 
Have left me hungry, thirsty for thyself. 

! feed and fire me ! Fill and furnish me ! 
And if thou hast for me some humble task — 
Some service for thyself, or for thy own — 
Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child. 

Or use him as thy willing instrument. 

1 ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ, 
Henceforth my Master ! " 

Multitudes, it seemed, 
Responded with ^' Amen ! " as if the word 
Were caught from mortal lips by swooping choirs 
Of spirits ministrant, and borne away 
In sweet reverberations into space. 



I raised my head at last, and met the eyes 
Bright with the light of death, and with the dawn 
Of opening heaven. The smile that overspread 
The fading features was the peaceful smile 
Of an immortal, — full of faith and love — 
A satisfied, triumphant, shining smile, 
Lit by the heavenly glory. 



314 KATHRINA. 

'* Paul," she said, 
" My work is done ; but you will live and work 
These many years. Your life is just begun, 
Too late, but well begun ; and you are mine, 
Now and forevermore. . . . Dear Lord ! my thanks 
For this thy crowning blessing ! " 

Then she paused. 
And raised her eyes in a seraphic trance, 
And lifted her thin fingers, that were thrilled 
With tremulous motion, like the slender spray 
On which a throbbing song-bird clings, and pours 
His sweet incontinence of ecstasy, 
And then in broken whispers said to me : 
" Do you not hear them ? They have caught the news ; 
And all the sky is ringing with their song 
Of gladness and of welcome. ^Paul is saved I 
Paul is redeemed and saved P I hear them cry; 
And myriad voices catch the new delight, 
And carry the acclaim, till heaven itself 
Sends back the happy echo : ^ Paul is saved /^" 

She stretched her hands, and took me to her breast. 
I kissed her, blessed her, spoke my last adieu, 
And yielded place to her whom God had given 
To be our child. After a long embrace. 
She whispered: "I am weary; let me sleep!" 

She passed to peaceful slumber like a child, 
The while attendant angels built the dream 
On which she rode to heaven. Not once again 
She spoke to mortal ears, but slept and smiled, 
And slept and smiled again, till daylight passed. 
The night came down ; the long hours lapsed away; 
The city sounds grew fainter, till at last 



KATHRINA. 3^5 

We sat alone with silence and with death. 
At the first blush of morning she looked up, 
And spoke, but not to us : " I'm coming now ! " 

I sought the window, to relieve the pain 

Of long suppressed emotion. In the East, 

Tinged with the golden dawn, the morning star 

Was blazing in its glory, while beneath. 

The slender moon, at its last rising, hung, 

Paling and dying in the growing light, 

And passing with that leading up to heaven. 

My daughter stood beside her mother's bed, 

But I had better vision of the scene 

In the sweet symbol God had hung for me 

Upon the sky. 

Swiftly the dawn advanced. 
And higher rose, and still more faintly shone, 
The star-led moon. Then, as it faded out. 
Quenched by prevailing day, I heard one sigh — 
A sigh so charged with pathos of deep joy. 
And peace ineffable, that memory 
Can never lose the sound ; and all was past ! 



The peaceful summer-day that rose upon 

This night of trial and this morn of grief. 

Rose not with calmer light than that which dawned 

Upon my spirit. Chastened, bowed, subdued, 

I kissed the rod that smote me, and exclaimed: 

'' The Lord hath given ; the Lord hath taken away; 

And blessed be his name ! " 



3l6 KATHRINA. 

Rebellion slept, 
I grieved, and still I grieve ; but with a heart 
At peace with God, and soft with sympathy 
Toward all my sorrowing, struggling, sinful race. 
My hope, that clung so fondly to the world 
And the rewards of time, an anchor sure 
Now grasps the Eternal Rock within the veil 
Of troubled waters. Storms may wrench and toss. 
And tides may swing me, in their ebb and flow, 
But I shall not be moved. 

Once more ! once more ! 
I shall behold her face, and clasp her hand ! 
Once more — forevermore ! 

So here 1 give 
The gospel of her precious. Christian life. 
I owe it to herself, and to the world. 
Grateful for all her tender ministry 
In life and death, I bring these leaves, entwined 
With her own roses, dewy with my tears. 
And lay them as the tribute of my love 
Upon the grave that holds her sacred dust. 



JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 



JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 



I. 



Who breaketh his fast so early, 
While yet he can count the stars ? 

And whose are the footsteps trailing through 
The dew to the pasture-bars ? 

He snafifleth his white-eyed gelding, 

He mounteth the saddle-tree ; 
And out from the skirts of Ipswich town 

All grimly rideth he. 

Out from the town at sunrise. 

His stubborn fields untilled, 
Rideth Jacob Hurd for a day and a night 

To see three witches killed. 

For Hurd is a stalwart Christian 
Whom Satan hath ne'er enticed ; 

He believeth in God and His holy word, 
And he hateth Antichrist. 

The devil in awe he holdeth, 

And God with an equal fear ; 
And little of Gospel and much of Law 

Make up his creed severe. 



320 JACOB HURD S CHILD. 

With a burning zeal for his Master, 
He fighteth with Death and Hell; 

And when a witch is brought to the rope, 
It pleaseth old Jacob well. 

So out of the town at sunrise, 

His stubborn fields untilled. 
He rideth forth for a day and a night 

To see three witches killed. 

He glanceth backward at Ipswich, 

Then leaneth low to pray, 
For he knoweth that in the wilderness 

The savage haunts the way. 

Look for thy last, old Jacob ! 

And pray, though thy prayer be vain; 
Thy errand hath not the smile of God; 

Thou comest not again ! 

II. 

It is four o'clock of the evening. 
And, dressed in her hodden gray, 

Old Jacob's wife is humming a tune, 
For the goodman is away. 

And forth from their distant cabins 
(None see them so soon as she). 

The women who hold old Hurd in fear 
Are coming to drink her tea. 

There's the pretty wife of Dunster, 
With Goffe's, from the meadow farm, 

And the Sparhawke girls, with goodwife Gill, 
And the Glovers, arm in arm. 



JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 32 1 

There is Peter Flynt's young widow, 

And her sister, in Lon'on brown, 
And Miriam Winship : oh, sweet and wise 

Is the school-ma'am of the town ! 

And the heart of the goodwife, waiting 

The coming of friendly feet. 
Is smitten through by an olden pang 

That is bitter at once, and sweet. 

For the school-ma'am once taught him letters— 

The wonderful boy who died. 
And who took from her motherly bosom all 

Its solace and its pride ; — 

And Miriam's coming would surely 

Bring to her heart the joy 
Of speaking, with none to make afraid, 

About her perished boy. 

(For Jacob held hard to silence, 

Though he was more than sad. 
And would not speak of their cruel loss 

With the mother of the lad.) 

She meeteth them at her door-way 

With a greeting of hand to hand, 
But she kisseth Miriam on her cheek, 

And the women understand. 



III. 

It is six o'clock of the evening, 
And, grouped at the table rude, 

The women have bent their heads to say 
Their word of gratitude. 
14* 



322 JACOB KURD'S CHILD, 

Now the tea and the feast are passing, 
While they gossip of home affairs — 

Of the deacon's cattle in the pound, 
Or a sick child up for prayers ; — 

Of a work of grace in the village, 

And the devil's work abroad, 
And the mischievous witches soon to go 

To the judgment bar of God. 

But Miriam speaketh a sentence 

That winneth the ears of all, 
When she turneth her eyes on goodwife Hurd, 

And biddeth her talk of Paul. 

Tears fill the eyes of the mother, 

And the kindly women list : 
" The lips," said she, " should be good and wise 

That an angel's lips have kissed; 

" But in truth my lips are neither ; 

For God, by the hand of pain. 
Sent a gift that my soul misunderstood, 

And he took it back again. 

** For Jacob and I had prayed him 

That who should be born of me 
Should be sanctified at his birth, and strong 

In the power of prophecy. 

"And the prayer was sweetly answered, 

But the prophet, all unguessed, 
Grew weary of our clumsy ways, 

And entered into rest. 



JACOB HURD'S child. 323 

" It was better that he left us, 

For Jacob could not know, 
That a child's sweet story was not a lie 

To be punished by a blow. 

'* For he was not made like others, 

His thoughts were weird and wild ; 
And Jacob at last believed, in truth, 

That a devil possessed the child. 

" With the birds that gathered about him. 

He prattled for hours and hours ; 
He sang to the spider upon his web. 

And the bees in the hearts of flowers. 

*' He carried a curious wisdom ; 

And many were the times 
When he sat in the sun the livelong day, 

And sang to himself in rhymes. 

** And he told such marvelous stories 

Of what he heard in the air, — 
Of the talk of the birds, and the songs of the sea,— 

That we were in despair. 

** And Jacob exclaimed : ' God help us ! 

For how is a man to know 
Whether a poet comes down from heaven, 

Or climbs from the world below ? ' 

*' One day, in the early autumn, 

When pigeons were in the woods. 
And out in the stubble the striped quail 

Were leading their pretty broods ; 



324 JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 

" When the partridge drummed in the distance, 
And the squirrel barked from the oak, 

And forth from the smoky hill-side came 
The woodman's lazy stroke, 

'" He went away toward the forest, 

And I saw his face no more 
Till, flushed by the red of the setting sun, 

He stood in the cabin door. 

" * Now where hast thou been ? ' said Jacob. 

' I have been on my horse,' said he ; 
And Jacob grew pale, and shook like a leaf 

As he took the lad on his knee. 

" * What horse hast thou ridden ? ' said Jacob. 

' I have ridden my own,' he said — 
* My golden horse with a silver tail, 

And a mane of silver thread. 

" ^ He came to me in the pasture. 

And he knelt for me to mount ; 
And his saddle and bridle were blazing with 

More jewels than I could count. 

" ' And he bore me like the lightning, 

Over sea and over land, 
And he coursed the shore, or mounted the air, 

Or stopped at my command. 

*' * I have seen the windy ocean, 

And flown above its waves. 
And I've seen the great leviathan 

Playing within its caves. 



JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 32 5 

" ' I have ridden through old England, 

Over hills and over dells, 
I have cantered through the London streets, 

And heard the London bells. 



te ( 



I have been to the holy places, 
And knelt and prayed in them, 
And fed my golden horse with bread 
In the streets of Jerusalem. 

" ' I have ridden by mighty rivers, 
From the mountains to the sea ; 

And hark ! ' said he, ' for my golden horse 
Is whinnying low for me ! ' 

** * Get down ! ' said Jacob, fiercely ; 

" ' Thou knowest thou hast lied ; 
Surely the devil possesseth thee ! * 

And he smote him from his side. 

** The sweet romancer staggered 

Into my waiting arms. 
And I kissed his cheeks without a fear 

Of Satan or his charms. 

" That night he lay in a fever, 
And raved of his golden horse ; 

And Jacob sat and watched by him, 
In a helpless, dumb remorse. 

" But my soul was in rebellion, 
For how could a child of prayer. 

With the love of his mother in his heart. 
Be taken in such a snare ? 



326 JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 

" * Thou believest that Mother Sewall 

Rideth a broom/ said I ; 
' But thy darling talks of his golden horse. 

And thou smitest him for a lie. 

*'*And I think, of the two, thou sinnest 

Against thy God the most ; 
For I judge thou chargest the Evil One 

With the work of the Holy Ghost ! ' 

*' But I begged my husband's pardon, 

For he was sore distraught ; 
And would never leave the darhng's bed, 

Though often I besought. 

" Long days and nights thereafter, 
In his dream the sweet lad lay, 

But his fancy was on its journeying, 
And always far away. 

" And he spoke of wondrous countries 
Through which his journey led, 

On his golden horse with the silver tail. 
And the mane of silver thread. 

" Till Jacob and I believed him, 
And would not have marveled much 

Had the golden creature revealed himself 
To our credulous sight and touch. 

" But weaker he grew and weaker, 

Until there came in his eye 
A look so weary and worn, we knew 

Our little boy would die. 



JACOB HURD'S child. 32/ 

" One still and cloudy midnight 

He woke and gazed around, 
And said that he heard his golden horse 

Pawing the pasture-ground. 

*' I think 'twas a bolt of thunder 

Shot by a distant shower, 
That shook the earth and the window-sash 

In the last throe of its power. 

''And I think it was the lightning, 

That cheated our straining eyes ; 
But it seemed as if a beauteous horse 

Entered in golden guise, 

" Breathing a flame from his nostrils, 

And pausing by the bed ; 
When the child sprang up with a cry of joy, 

And sank on his pillow, dead. 

"And then, on the second morning. 

We bore him to the grave, — 
The child that we were unfit to keep, 

And had no power to save. 

" But in the long procession. 

No eyes but ours could see 
The wondrous figure we beheld 

Leading the company. 

** For following hard the neighbors 

Who bore the precious corse, 
Rode little Paul right gallantly 

Upon his golden horse. 



328 JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 

" I saw him just as plainly 

As e'er I saw a flame ; 
And he nodded to me with a smile, 

And Jacob saw the same." 



IV. 

The story and feast are ended, 

And forth from the open door, 
With eyelids wide and faces flushed, 

The guests of the evening pour. 

The sun in the west is setting, 
And bathing each farm and fold 

With the lifted dust of the village ways 
In an atmosphere of gold. 

Now what is that in the distance 
Which catches each gazing eye ? 

'Tis a flurry of dust that travels fast, 
Like a whirlwind from the sky ! 

Nearer it comes, and nearer. 

Till all the gazers know 
That a horse is running without a man 

Behind the saddle-bow ! 

He courses along the highway 

That leads across the plain, 
And they hear the beat of his heavy feet 

As he rushes down the lane. 

And, leaning on Miriam Winship, 

A cry in her frightened breath. 
The good wife Hurd knows well that the horse 

Is the messenger of death ; 



JACOB HURD S CHILD. 329 

And that somewhere among the shadows 

Her husband lies apart, 
With the scalp-lock riven from his head 

And an arrow in his heart. 

And the women scream in wonder, 

For all can plainly see 
That a little lad with a smiling face 

Bestrides the saddle-tree. 

He tosses a kiss to his mother, 

He tenderly bows to all, 
And they know that their eyes behold indeed, 

The spirit of little Paul. 

The horse flies by the cottage, 

And into his pasture home. 
Yellow and bright in the sunset gold, 

And spotted with silver foam. 

And the women hasten homeward, 

Among the dropping dews, 
To tell of the marvels they have seen. 

And to bear the heavy news. 

But Miriam passeth inward, 

Her hand in goodwife Hurd's, 
And readeth there, for her comforting. 

The Bible's gracious words. 

Then reverently she kneeleth 

And uttereth a prayer. 
That the childless and the widowed one 

May have the Father's care. 



330 JACOB KURD'S CHILD. 

But ere her prayer she endeth, 
With fervent voice she saith : 

" Oh punish not our blundering more 
With chastisement of death! 

** But when thou sendest poets 

To such dull folk as we, 
Inspire our blind and doubting eyes 

To know them when we see I " 



THE 

Mistress of the Manse. 



PRELUDE. 

In all the crowded Universe 

There is but one stupendous Word ; 

And huge and rough, or trimmed and terse, 

Its fragments build and undergird 

The songs and stories we rehearse. 

All forms that human language tries. 
All phrases of the books and schools. 
And all the words of great and wise 
Are weak attempts, or clumsy tools. 
To speak the Word that speech defies. 

That Word, ineffable to man^ 

Though whispered through a thousand years. 

Or thundered in the fiery van 

Of all the myriad-wheeling spheres, 

Remains unvoiced since time began. 

There is no tree that rears its crest, 
No fern or flower that cleaves the sod, 
Nor bird that sings above its nest. 
But tries to speak this Word of God, 
And dies when it has done its best. 

Like marble in the mountain mine, 
White at its heart as on its face, 



(34 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE, 

We chip its crystals, nor divine 
The forms of majesty and grace 
That wait within the central shrine ! 

And this Great Word, all words above, 
Including, yet defying all — 
Soft as the crooning of a dove, 
And strong as the Archangel's call — 
Means only this — means only Love! 

It represents Creation's whole, — 
All space, all worlds, all living things : 
And Love endows them with a soul, — 
The bright Shechinah, throned in wings 
Behind the Temple's Sacred Scroll ! 

The love of home and native land. 
The love that springs in son and sire, 
And that which welds the heart and hand 
Of man and maiden in its fire. 
Are signs by which we understand 

The love whose passion shook The Cross ; 
And all those loves that, deep and broad, 
Make princely gain of piteous loss, 
Reveal the love that lives in God 
As in a blood-illumined gloss. 



II. 

Mayhap the humble tale I tell 
Of the great passion which absorbs 
The gentle hearts that round me dwell, 
And wings the world, and holds the orbs. 
And strews the skies with asphodel, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 335 

Will yield some letters of the Word 
Which still unspoken must remain ; 
And bear to bosoms, swelled and stirred, 
Some meanings of the tender pain 
Which they have neither seen nor heard. 

My Philip, bred in Northern climes. 
Preached the great Word I strive to sing; 
And in the grand and golden times — 
Aflame with love — he went to bring 
His Mildred — subject of my rhymes — 

From her far home on Southern plains ; 
And what they shared of bale and bliss, 
And what their losses, what their gains, 
The loving eye that readeth this 
May gather, if it take the pains. 



LOVE'S EXPERIMENTS. 



I. 

The group of ladies at the gate 
Dissolved, and tripped in haste away; 
And then, with backward tilting freight. 
The old stage coach, in dusty gray, 
Stopped; and the pastor and his mate 

Stepped forth, and passed the waiting door. 
And closed it on the gazing street. 
" Oh, Philip ! " She could say no more ; 
" Oh, Mildred ! You're at home, my sweet,- 
The old life closed: the new before!" 

"Dinah, the mistress!" And the maid, 

Grown motherly with household care 

And loving service, and arrayed 

In homely neatness, took the pair 

Of small gloved hands held out, and paid 

Her low obeisance; then— " this way!" 
And when she brought her forth at last. 
To him who grudged the long delay, 
He found the soil of travel cast, 
And Mildred fresh and fair as May. 
15 



338 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



II. 



" This is our little Manse," he said ; 
" Now look with both your curious eyes 
Around, beneath, and overhead, 
And, seeing all things, realize 
That they are ours, and we are wed ! 

" Walk through these freshly garnished rooms- 
These halls of oak and tinted pearl ; 
And mark the cups of clover-blooms. 
Cut fresh, to greet the stranger-girl, 
By those whose courtesy illumes 

''The house beyond the grace of flowers I 
They greet you, mantled by my name, 
And rain their tenderness in showers ; 
Responding to the double claim 
Of love no longer mine, but ours. 

''This is our parlor, plain and sweet: 
Your hands shall make it half divine. 
That wide, old-fashioned window-seat. 
Beneath your touch shall grow a shrine ; 
And every nooklet and retreat, 

" And every barren ledge and shelf, 
Shall wear a charm beyond the boon 
Of treasure-bearing drift, or delf. 
Or dreams that flutter from the moonj 
For it shall blossom with yourself. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 339 

" This is my study : here, alone, 
Prayerful to Him whom I adore. 
And gathering speech to make him known, 
Your far, quick footsteps on the floor. 
Your breezy robe, your cheerful tone, 

" As through our pretty home you speed 
The busy ministries of life, 
Shall stir me swifter than my creed, 
And be more musical, dear wife. 
Than sweep of harp, or pipe of reed. 

"Here is our fairy banquet hall! 

See how it opens to the East, 

And looks through elms ! The board is small, 

But what it bears shall be a feast 

At morn, at noon, and evenfall. 

" There will you sit in girlish grace, 
And catch the sunrise in your hair ; 
And looking at you, from my place, 
I shall behold more sweet and fair, 
The morning, in your smiling face ! 

"And guests shall come, and guests shall go, 
And break with us our daily bread ; 
And sometime — sometime — do you know? 
I hope that — dearest, lift your head. 
And let me speak it, soft and low! 

" The grass is sweeter than the ground: 
Can love be finer than its flowers ? 
Oh, sometime — sometime — in the round 
Of coming years, this board of ours 
I hope may blossom and abound 



340 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



" With shining curls, and laughing eyes, 
And pleasant jests and merry words, 
And questions full of life's surprise, 
And light and music, when the birds 
Have left us to our gloomy skies. 

— '' Now mount with me the old oak stair! 
This is your chamber — pink and blue ! 
They asked the color of your hair. 
And draped and fitted all for you. 
My fine brunette, with tasteful care. 

" The linen is as white as snow ; 
The flowers are set on every sconce ; 
And e'en the cushioned pin-heads show 
Your formal " welcome," for the nonce, 
To the sweet home their hands bestow. 

*' Declining to the river's marge. 
See, from this window, how the turf 
Runs with a thousand flowers in charge 
To meet the silver feet of surf 
That fly from every passing barge ! 

*' Along that reach of liquid light 
FHes Commerce with her countless keels; 
There the chained Titan m his might 
Turns slowly round the groaning wheels 
That drag her burdens, day and night. 

'* And now the red sun flings his kiss 
Across its waves from finger-tips 
That pause, and grudgingly dismiss 
The one he loves to closer lips. 
And Moonlight's quiet hour of bliss. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 341 

" And here comes Dinah with the steam, 

Of evening cups and evening food, 

And burning berries quenched with cream, 

And ministry of homely good 

That proves, my dear, we do not dream." 



III. 



He heard the long-drawn organ-peal 

Within his chapel call to prayer ; 

And, answering with ready zeal. 

He breathed o'er Mildred's weary chair 

These words, and sealed them with a seal : 

*' Only a little hour I take ;— 
But know that I am wholly yours, 
And that a thousand bosoms ache 
To tell you, that while life endures. 
You shall be cherished for my sake. 

" So throw your heart's door open wide, 

And take in mine as well as me ; 

Let no poor creature be denied 

The grace of tender courtesy 

And kindness from the pastor's bride," 



IV. 



The moon came up the summer sky : 
*'Oh, happy moon!" the lady said; 
" Men love thee for thyself, but I 
Am loved because my life is wed 
To one whose message, pure and high, 



342 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

" Has spread the world's evangel far, 

And thrown such radiance through the dark 

That men behold him as a star, 

And in his gracious coming mark 

How beautiful his footsteps are. 

^' Oh, Moon ! dost thou take all thy light 
From the great sun so lately gone ? 
Are there not shapes upon thy white. 
That mould and make his sheen thy own, 
And charms that soften to the sight 

" The ardor of his blinding blaze ? 
Who loves thee that thou art the sun's ? 
Who does not give thee sweetest praise 
Among the troop of shining ones 
That sweep along the heavenly ways? 

^'Yet still within the holy place 

The altar sanctifies the gift ! 

Poor, precious gift, that begs for grace! 

Oh, towering altar! that doth lift 

The gift So high, that, in its face, 

** It bears no beauty to the thought 
Of those who round the altar stand ! 
Poor, precious gift, that goes for naught 
From willing heart and ready hand, 
And wins no favor unbesought ! 

" The stars are whiter for the blue ; 
The sky is deeper for the stars ; 
They give and take in commerce true, 
And lend their beauty to the cars 
Of downy dusk, that all night through 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 343 

" Sweep o'er the void on silver wheels ; 
Yet neither starry sky nor cloud 
Is loved the less that it reveals 
A beauty all its own, endowed 
By all the wealth its beauty steals. 

** Am I a dew-drop in a rose, 
With no significance apart ? 
Must I but sparkle in repose 
Close to its folded, fragrant heart, 
Its peerless beauty to disclose ? 

" Would I not toil to win his bread. 
Or give him all I have to give ? 
Would I not die in his sweet stead, 
And die in joy ? But 1 must live ; 
And, living, I must still be fed 

" On love that comes in love's own right. 
They must not pet or pamper me — 
These who rejoice beneath his light — 
Or pity him, that I can be 
So precious in his princely sight." 

With swiftest wings, through heart and brain, 

The little hour unheeded flew ; 

And when, behind the blazoned stain 

Of saintly vestures, red and blue. 

The lights on rose and window-pane 

Within th6 chapel slowly died, 

And figures muffled by the moon 

Went shuffling home on either side — 

One seeking her — she said : " How soon! " 

And the glad pastor kissed his bride. 



344 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



V. 

The bright night brightened into dawn; 
The shadows down the mountain passed ; 
And tree and shrub and sloping lawn, 
With bending, beaded beauty glassed 
In myriad suns the sun that shone ! 

The robin fed her nested young ; 
The swallows bickered 'neath the eaves ; 
The hang-bird in her hammock swung, 
And, tilting high among the leaves, 
Her red mate sang alone, or flung 

The dew-drops on her lifted head ; 
While on the grasses, white and far, 
The tents of fairy hosts were spread 
That, scared before the morning star, 
Had left their reeking camp, and fled. 

The pigeon preened his opal breast ; 
And o'er the meads the bobolink. 
With vexed perplexity confessed 
His tinkling gutturals in a kink. 
Or giggled round his secret nest. 

With dizzy wings and dainty craft. 

In green and gold, the humming-bird 

Dashed here and there, and touched and quaffed 

The honey-dew, then flashed and whirred, 

And vanished like the feathered shaft 

That glitters from a random bow. 
The flies were buzzing in the sun. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 345 

The bees were busy in the snow 
Of Hlies, and the spider spun, 
And waited for his prey below. 

With sail aloft and sail adown, 

And motion neither slow nor swift, 

With dark-brown hull and shadow brown, 

Half-way between two skies adrift, 

The barque went dreaming toward the town. 

'Twas Sunday in the silent street. 
And Sunday in the silent sky. 
The peace of God came down to meet 
The throng that laid their labor by. 
And rested weary hands and feet. 

Ah, sweet the scene which caught the glance 
Of eyes that with the morning woke, 
And, from their window in the manse. 
Looked up through sprays of elm and oak 
Into the sky's serene expanse, 

And off upon the distant wood. 
And down into the garden's close. 
And over, where his chapel stood 
In ivy, reaching to its rose. 
Waiting the Sunday multitude! 



VI. 

A red rose in her raven hair 
Whose curls were held by plait and braid, 
The bride swept down the oaken stair, 
And mantled like a bashful maid, 
As, seated in the waiting chair, 
IS* 



346 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Behind the fragrant urn, she poured 
The nectar of the morn's repast ; 
But fairer lady, fonder lord. 
In happier hall ne'er broke their fast 
With sweeter bread, at prouder board. 

And then they rose with common will, 

And sought the parlor, cool and dim. 

*' Sing, love!" he said. *' The birds grow still, 

And wait with me to hear your hymn." 

She swept a low, preluding trill — 

A spray of sound — across the keys 
That felt her fingers for the first ; 
And then, from simplest cadences, 
A reverent melody she nursed, 
And gave it voice in words like these : 

" From full forgetfulness of pain, 
From joy to opening joy again, 
With bird and flower, and hill and tree, 
We lift our eyes and hands to thee, 
To greet thee. Father, Lord of Heaven and Earth ! 

" That thou dost bathe our souls anew 
With balm of light and heavenly dew, 
And smilest in our upward eyes 
From the far blue of smiling skies, 
We bless thee, Father, Lord of Heaven and Earth ! 

" For human love and love divine, 
For love of ours and love of thine. 
For heaven on earth and heaven above — 
To thee and us twin homes of love — 
We thank thee. Father, Lord of Heaven and Earth ! 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 347 

" O dove-like wings, so wide unfurled 
In brooding calm above the world ! 
Waft us your holy peace, and raise 
The incense of our morning praise 
Up to our Father, Lord of Heaven and Earth ! " 



VII. 

Full fleetly sped the morning hours ; 
Then, wide upon the country round 
A tumult of melodious powers 
In tumult of melodious sound 
Burst forth from all the village towers. 

With blow on blow, and tone on tone, 
And echoes answering everywhere — 
Like bugles from the mountains blown — 
Each sought to whelm the burdened air, 
And make the silence all its own. 

In broad, sonorous, silver swells 
The air was billowed like the sea ; 
And listening ears were listening shells 
That caught the Sabbath minstrelsy. 
And sang it with the singing bells. 

The billows heaved, the billows broke, 
The first wild burst went down amain ; 
The music fell to slower stroke. 
And in a rhythmic, bold refrain 
The great bells to each other spoke. 

Oh, bravely bronze gave forth his word, 
And sharply silver made reply. 



348 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

And every tower and turret stirred 
With sounding breath and converse high, 
Or paused with waiting ear and heard. 

And long they talked, as friend to friend; 
Then faltered to their closing toll, 
Whose long, monotonous repetend, 
From every music-burdened bowl 
Poured the last drop, and brought the end! 



VIII. 

The chapel's chime fell slow and soft 
And throngs slow-marching to its knoll 
From village home and distant croft, 
With careful feet and reverent soul 
Pressed toward the open door, but oft 

Turned curious and expectant eyes 
Upon the Manse that stood apart. 
There in her quiet, bridal guise 
Fair Mildred sat with shrinking heart; 
While Philip, bold and over-wise. 

And knowing naught of woman's ways, 
Smiled at her fears, and could not guess 
How one so armored in his praise. 
And strong in native loveliness. 
Could dread to meet his people's gaze. 

He could not know her fine alarm 
When at his manly side she stood, 
And, leaning faintly on his arm — 
A dainty slip of womanhood — 
Walked forth where every girlish charm 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 349 

Was scanned with prying gaze and glance, 
Among the slowly moving crowd 
That, greedy of the precious chance, 
Read furtively, but half aloud. 
The pages of their new romance. 

*'A child!" And Mildred caught the word. 
" A plaything ! " And another voice : 
" Fine feathers, and a Southern bird ! " 
And still one more : "A parson's choice!" 
And trembling Mildred overheard. 

These from the careless or the dull — 
These from the gossips and the dolts — 
And though her quickened ear might cull 
From out their whispered thunderbolts 
A " lovely ! " and a '' beautiful ! " 

And though sweet mother-faces smiled, 
And bows were given with friendly grace, 
And many a pleasant little child 
Sought sympathy within her face. 
Her aching heart was not beguiled. 

She did not see — she only felt — 

As up the staring aisle she walked — 

The critic glances, coldly dealt 

By those who looked, and bent, and talked : 

And, even, when at last she knelt 

Alone within the pastor's pew, 
And prayed for self-forgetfulness 
With deep humility, she knew 
She gave her figure and her dress 
To careful eyes with closer view. 



350 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



IX. 



At length she raised her head, and tossed 
A burden from her heart and brain. 
She would have love at any cost 
Of weary toil and patient pain, 
Of rightful ease and pleasure lost ! 

They could not love her for his sake ; 
They would not, and her heart forgave. 
Why should a woman stoop to take 
The poor endowment of a slave, 
And, like a menial, choose to make 

Her master's mantle half her own ? 

They loved her least who loved him most! 

They envied her her little throne ! 

He who was cherished by a host 

Was hers by gift, and hers alone ; 

And she would prove her woman's right 
To hold the throne to which the king 
Had called her, clothing her with white ; 
And never would she show her ring 
To win a loving proselyte ! 

These were the thoughts and this the strife 

That through her kindling spirit swept, 

And wrought her purposes of life ; 

While powers that waked and powers that slept 

Within the sweet and girlish wife, 

Sprang into energy intense. 
At touch of an inspiring chrism 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 35 1 

That fell on her, she knew not whence, 

And lifted her to heroism 

Which wrapped her wholly, soul and sense. 



X. 

Meanwhile, through all the vaulted space 

The organ sent its angels out ; 

And up and down the holy place 

They fanned the cheeks of care and doubt, 

And touched each worn and weary face 

With beauty as their wings went by : 
Then sailed afar with peaceful sweep, 
And, calling heavenward every eye. 
Evanished into silence deep — 
The earth forgotten in the sky ! 

Then by the sunlight warmly kissed, 
Far up, in rainbow glory set. 
Rayed round with gold and amethyst. 
She saw upon the great rosette 
The Saviour's visage, pale and trist. 

" Oh, Crown of Thorns ! " she softly breathed; 
** Oh, precious crown of love divine ! 
Oh, brow with trickling life enwreathed ! 
Oh, piercing thorns and crimson sign ! 
I hold you mine in love bequeathed. 

" But not for sake of these or thee 1 
I must win love as thou hast won. 
The thorns are mine, and all must sec. 
In sacrifice, and service done. 
The loving Lord they love in me." 



352 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



XI. 



Then, through a large and golden hour 
She listened to the golden speech 
Of one who held the priceless dower 
Of love and eloquence, that reach 
And move the hearts of men with power. 

Ah ! poor the music of the choir 

That voiced the Psalter after him ! 

And strong the prayer that, touched with fire. 

Flamed upward, past the seraphim, 

And wrapped the throne of his desire ! 

She watched and heard as in a dream, 
When, in the old, familiar ground 
Of sacred truth, he found his theme, 
And led it forth, until it wound 
Through meadows broad — a swollen stream 

That flashed and eddied in the light. 
And fed the grasses at its edge, 
Or thundered in its onward might 
O'er interposing weir and ledge, 
And left them hidden in the white ; 

Then pressing onward to the eye. 

Grew broader, till its breadth became 

A solemn river, sweeping by. 

That, quick with ships and red with flame. 

Reached far away and kissed the sky ! 

Strong men were moved as trees are bowed 
Before a swift and sounding wind ; 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 353 

And sighs were long and sobs were loud, 
From loving saints and those who sinned, 
Among the deeply listening crowd. 



XII. 

And Mildred, in the whelming tide 
Of thought and feeling, quite forgot 
That he who thus had magnified 
His office, held a common lot 
With her, and owned her as his bride. 

But when, at length, the thought returned 
That she was his in plighted truth, 
And she with humbled soul discerned 
That, though her youth was given to youth, 
And love by love was fairly earned. 

She could not match him, wing- and -wing, 
Through all his broad and lofty range. 
And thought what passing years might bring- 
No change for good, but only change 
That would degrade her to a thing 

Of homely use and household care,. 
And love by duty basely kept — 
She bowed her head upon the bare 
Cold rail that hid her face, and wept, 
And poured her passion in a prayer. 

XIII. 

"Oh, Father, Father!" thus she prayed: 
"Thou know'st the priceless boon I seek! 
Before my life, abashed, dismayed, 



354 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

I stand, with hopeless hands and weak, 
Of him and of myself afraid ! 

" Teach me and lead me where to find, 
Beyond the touch of hand and lip. 
That vital charm of heart and mind 
Which, in a true companionship. 
My feebler life to his shall bind ! 

" His ladder leans upon the sun ; 
I cannot climb it : give me wings ! 
Grant that my deeds, divinely done. 
May be appraised divinest things, 
Though they be little, every one. 

"His stride is strong; his steps are highs 

May not my deeds be little stairs 

That, counted swift, shall keep me nigh, 

Till at the summit, unawares, 

We stand with equal foot and eye ? 

" If further down toward Nature's heart 
His root is struck, commanding springs 
In whose deep life I have no part, 
Send me, on recompensing wings. 
The rain that gathers where thou art! 

" Oh, give me vision to divine 

What he with delving hand explores ! 

Feed me with flame that shall refine 

To finest gold the rugged ores 

His strong hands gather from the mine ! 

" So, dearest Father, shall no sloth. 
Or weakness of my weaker soul, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 355 

Delay him in his kingly growth, 
Or hold him meanly from the goal 
That shines with guerdon for us both." 



XIV. 

Then all arose as if a spell 

Had been dissolved for their release, 

The while the benediction fell 

Which breathed the gentle Master's peace 

On all the souls that loved him well. 

And Philip, coming from his place, 
Like Moses from the mountain pyre, 
Bore on his brow the shining grace 
Of one who, in the cloud and fire. 
Had met his Maker, face to face. 

And men and women, young and old, 
Pressed up to meet him as he came, 
And children, by their love made bold. 
Grasped both his hands and spoke his name. 
And in their simple language told 

Their joy to see his face once more ; 
While half in pleasure, half in pain, 
His bride stood waiting at her door 
The passage of the friendly train 
That slowly swept the crowded floor. 

Half-bows were tendered and returned ; 
And welcomes fell from lips and eyes ; 
But in her heart she meekly spurned 
The love that came in love's disguise 
Of sympathy — the love unearned. 



3S6 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

XV. 

Then out beneath the noon day sun 
Of the old Temple, cool and dim, 
She walked beside her chosen one, 
And lost her loneliness in him ; 
But hardly was her walk begun 

When, straight before her in the street, 
With tender shock her eye descried 
A little child, with naked feet 
And scanty dress, that, hollow-eyed, 
Looked up and begged for bread to eat. 

Nor haughty pride nor dainty spleen 
Felt with her heart the sickening shock. 
She took the hand so soiled and lean ; 
And silken robe and ragged frock 
Moved side by side across the green. 

She looked for love, and, low and wild, 
She found it— looking, too, for love ! 
So in each other's eyes they smiled. 
As, dark brown hand in snowy glove, 
The bride led home the hungry child. 

And men and women in amaze 

Paused in their homeward steps to see 

The bride retreating from their gaze. 

Clasped hand in hand with misery ; 

Then brushed their eyes, and went their ways. 

XVI. 

When the long parley found a close, 
And, clean and kempt, the little oaf — 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 35/ 

Disburdened of her wants and woes, 
And loaded with her wheaten loaf — 
Went forth to minister to those 

Who sent her on her bitter quest, 

The bride stood smiling at her door. 

And in her happiness confessed 

That she had found a friend ; nay, more — 

Had entertained a heavenly guest. 

And as she watched her down the street, 
Her brow grown bright with sunny thought, 
Her heart o'erfiUed with something sweet, 
She knew the vagrant child had brought 
The blessing of the Paraclete. 

She turned from out the blazing noon. 
And sought her chamber's quiet shade. 
Like one who had received a boon 
She might not show, but which essayed 
Expression in a happy croon. 

And then, outleaping from the mesh 
Of Memory's net, like bird or bee. 
There thrilled her spirit and her flesh 
This old half-song, half-rhapsody. 
That sang, or said itself, afresh : 



" Poor little wafer of silver ! 

More precious to me than its cost ! 

It was worn of both image and legend, 

But priceless because it was lost. 

My chamber I carefully swept ; 

I hunted, and wondered, and wept ; 



358 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

And I found it at last with a cry : 
Oh, dear little treasure ! said I ; 
And I washed it with tears all the day : 
Then I kissed it, and put it away. 

" Poor little lamb of the sheepfold ! 

Unlovely and feeble it grew ; 

But it wandered away to the mountains, 

And was fairer the further it flew. 

I followed with hurrying feet 

At the call of its pitiful bleat. 

And precious, with wonderful charms, 

I caught it at last in my arms, 

And bore it far back to its keep. 

And kissed it and put it to sleep. 

*' Poor little vagrant from Heaven ! 

It wandered away from the fold. 

And its weakness and danger endowed it 

With value more precious than gold. 

Oh, happy the day when it came, 

And my heart learned its beautiful name ! 

Oh, happy the hour when I fed 

This waif of the angels with bread ! 

And the lamb that the Shepherd had missed 

Was sheltered and nourished and kissed ! " 



XVII. 

To Philip, Mildred was a child, 
Or a fair angel, to be kept 
From all things earthly undefiled,- 
Who on his loving bosom slept, 
And only waked to be beguiled 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 359 

From loneliness and homely care 
By love's unfailing ministry. 
No toil of his was she to share, 
No burden hers, that should not be 
Left for his stronger hands to bear. 

His love enwrapped her as a robe. 
Which seemed, by its supernal charm, 
To shield from every poisoned probe 
Of earthly pain and earthly harm 
This one choice creature of the globe. 

The love he bore her lifted him 
Into a bright, sweet atmosphere 
That filled with beauty to the brim 
The world beneath him, far and near, 
And stained the clouds that draped its rim. 

Toil was not toil, except in name ; 

Care was not care, but only means 

To feed with holy oil the flame 

That warmed her soul, and lit the scenes 

Through which her figure went and came. 

Her smile of welcome was his meed ; 
Her presence was his great reward ; 
He questioned sadly if, indeed, 
He loved more loyally his Lord, 
Or if his Lord felt greater need. 

And Mildred, vexed, misunderstood, 
Knew all his love, but might not tell 
How in his thought, so large and good. 
And in his heart, there did not dwell 
The measure of her womanhood. 



360 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

She knew the girlish charm would fade ; 
She knew the rapture would abate ; 
That years would follow when the maid, 
Merged in the matron, and sedate 
With change, and sitting in the shade 

Of a great nature, would become 
As poor and pitiful a thing 
As an old idol, and as dumb, — 
A clog upon an upward wing, — 
A value stricken from the sum 

Which a true woman's hand would raise 
To mighty numbers, and endow 
With kingly power and crowning praise. 
She must be mate of his ; but how ? 
And, dreaming of a thousand ways 

Her hands would work, her feet would tread, 
She thought to match him as a man ! 
His books should be her daily bread ; 
She would run swiftly where he ran. 
And follow closely where he led. 



XVIII. 

Since time began, the perfect day- 
Has robbed the morrow of its wealth. 
And squandered, in its lavish sway, 
The balm and beauty of the stealth, 
And left its golden throne in gray. 

So when the Sunday light declined, 

A cold wind sprang and shut the flowers 

Then vagrant voices, undefined. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 361 

Grew louder through the evening hours, 
Till the old chimney howled and whined 

As if it were a frightened beast, 
That witnessed from its dizzy post 
The loathsome forms and grewsome feast 
And hideous mirth of ghoul and ghost. 
As on they crowded from the East. 

The willow, gathered into sheaves 

Of scorpions by spectral arms, 

Swung to and fro, and whipped the eaves, 

And filled the house with weird alarms 

That hissed from all its tortured leaves. 

And in the midnight came the rain ; — 

In spiteful needles at the first ; 

But soon on roof and window-pane 

The slowly gathered fury burst 

In floods that came, and came again. 

And poured their roaring burden out. 

They swept along the sounding street. 

Then paused, and then with shriek and shout 

Hurtled as if a myriad feet 

Had joined the dread and deafening rout. 

But ere the welcome morning broke. 
The loud wind fell, though gray and chill 
The drizzling rain and drifting smoke 
Drove slowly toward the westward hill, 
Half hidden in its phantom cloak. 

And through the mist a clumsy smack, 
Deep loaded with her clumsy freight, 
16 



362 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

With shifting boom and frequent tack, 
Like a huge ghost that wandered late, 
Reeled by upon her devious track. 



XIX. 

So Mildred, with prophetic ken, 
Saw in the long and rainy day 
The dreaded host of friendly men 
And friendly women, kept away. 
And time for love, and book, and pen. 

But while she looked, with dreaming eyes 
And heart content, upon the scene, 
She saw a stalwart man arise 
Where the wild water lashed the green. 
And pause a breath, to signalize 

Some one beyond her stinted view ; 
Then turn with hurried feet, and straight 
The deep, rain-burdened grasses through. 
And through the manse's open gate. 
Pass to her door. At once she knew 

That some faint soul, in sad extreme, 
Had sent for succor to the manse. 
And knew its master would redeem 
To sacred use the circumstance 
That made such havoc of her scheme. 



XX. 

She saw the quiet men depart. 
She saw them leave the river-side, 
She saw them brave with sturdy art 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 363 

The surges of the angry tide, 

And disappear ; the while her heart 

Sank down in dismal loneliness. 

Then came her vexing thoughts again ; 

And quick, as if she broke duress 

Of heavy weariness or pain. 

She sought the study's dim recess, 

Where rank on rank, against the wall, 
The mighty men of every land 
Stood mutely waiting for the call 
Of him who, with his single hand. 
Had bravely met and mastered all. 

The gray old monarchs of the pen 

Looked down with calm, benignant gaze, 

And Augustine and Origen 

And Ansel justified the ways — 

The wondrous ways — of God with men. 

Among the tall hierophants 
Angelical Aquinas stood ; 
While Witsius held the '* Covenants," 
And Irenaeus, wise and good. 
Couched low his silver-bearded lance 

For strife with heresy and schism, 
And Turretin with lordly nod 
Gave system to the dogmatism 
That analyzed the thought of God 
As light is painted by a prism. 

Great Luther, with his great disputes, 
And Calvin, with his finished scheme, 



364 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

And Charnock, with his '^ Attributes," 
And Taylor with his poet's dream 
Of theologic flowers and flutes, 

And Thomas Fuller, old and quaint, 
And Cudworth, dry with dust of gold. 
And South, the sharp and witty saint, 
With Howe and Owen — broad and bold — 
And Leighton still without the taint 

Of earth upon his robe of white, 
Stood side by side with Hobbes and Locke, 
And — braced by many an acolyte — 
With Edwards standing on his rock. 
And all New England's men of might. 

Whose gifts and offices divine 
Had crowned her with a kingly crown, 
And solemn doctors from the Rhine, ' 
With Fichte, Kant, and Hegel, down 
Through all the long and stately line ! 

As Mildred saw the awful host, 

She felt within no motive stir 

To realize her girlish boast, 

And knew they held no more for her 

Than if each volume were a ghost. 



XXI. 

She sat in Philip's vacant chair, 
And pondered long her doubtful way ; 
And, in her impotent despair, 
Lifted her longing eyes to pray. 
When on a shelf, far up and bare, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 365 

She saw an ancient volume lie ; 
And straight her rising thought was checked. 
What were its dubious treasures ? Why- 
Had it been banished from respect, 
And from its owner's hand and eye ? 

The more she gazed, the stronger grew 
The wish to hold it in her hand. 
Strange fancies round the volume flew, 
And changed the dust their pinions fanned 
To atmospheres of red and blue, 

That blent in purple aureole, — 
As if a lymph of sweetest life 
Stood warm within a golden bowl, 
Crowned with its odor-cloud, and rife 
With strength and solace for her soul ! 

And there it lay beyond her arm. 
And wrought its fine and wondrous spell, 
With all its hoard of good or harm, 
Till curious Mildred, struggling well, 
Surrendered to the mighty charm: 

The steps were scaled for boon or bale. 
The book was lifted from its place, 
And, bowing to the fragrant grail, 
She drank with pleased and eager face 
This draught from off an Eastern tale : 



366 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



SELIM AND NOURMAHAL. 

Selim, the haughty Jehangir, the Conqueror of the Earth, 
With royal pomps and pageantries and rites of festal 

mirth 
Was set to celebrate the day — the white day — of his birth. 

His red pavilions, stretching wide, crowned all with globes 

of gold, 
And tipped with pinnacles of fire and streamers manifold, 
Flamed with such splendor that the sun at noon looked 

pale and cold ! 

And right and left, along the plain, far as the eye could 

gaze, 
His nobles and retainers who were tented in the blaze. 
Kept revel high in honor of that day of all the days. 

The earth was spread, the walls were hung, with silken 

fabrics fine. 
And arabesque and lotus-flower bore each the broidered 

sign 
Of jewels plucked from land and sea, and red gold from 

the mine. 

Upon his throne he sat alone, half buried in the gems 
That strewed his tapestries like stars, and tipped their 

tawny hems, 
And glittered with the glory of a hundred diadems. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 367 

He saw from his pavilion door the nodding heron-plumes 
His nobles wore upon their brows, while, from the rosy 

glooms 
Which hid his harem, came low songs, on wings of rare 

perfumes I 

The elephants, a thousand strong, had passed his dream- 
ing eye. 

Caparisoned with golden plates on head and breast and 
thigh, 

And a hundred flashing troops of horse unmarked had 
thundered by. 

He sat upon old Akbar's throne, the heir of power and 

fame ; 
But all his glory was as dust, and dust his wondrous name — 
Swept into air, and scattered far, by one consuming flame ! 

For on that day of all the days, and in that festal hour. 
He sickened with his glory and grew weary of his power, 
And pined to bind upon his breast his harem's choicest 
flower. 

"Oh Nourmahal! oh Nourmahal! why sit I here," he 

cried, — 
" The victim of these gaudy shows, and of my haughty 

pride. 
When thou art dearer to my soul than all the world beside ! 

" Thy eyes are brighter than the gems piled round my 

gilded seat ; 
Thy cheeks are softer than the silks that shimmer at my 

feet, 
And purer heart than thine in woman's breast hath never 

beat! 



368 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

" My first love — and my only love — Oh babe of Candahar ! 
Torn from my boyish arms at first, and, like a silver star 
Shining within another heaven, and worshipped from afar, 

"Thou art my own at last, my own! I pine to see thy 

face ; 
Come to me, Nourmahal ! Oh come, and hallow with thy 

grace 
The glories that without thy love are meaningless and 

base ! " 

He spoke a word, and, quick as light, before him, lying 

prone 
A dark-eyed page, with gilded vest and crimson- belted 

zone. 
Looked up with waiting ear to mark the message from 

the throne. 

** Go summon Nourmahal, my queen; and when her radi- 
ance comes, 
Bear my command of silence to the vinas and the drums, 
And for your guerdon take your choice of all these gilded 
crumbs." 

He tossed a handful of the gems down where his minion 

lay. 
Who snatched a jewel from the drift, and swiftly sped 

away 
With his command to Nourmahal, who waited to obey. 

But needlessly the mandate fell of silence on the crowd, 
For when the Empress swept the path, ten thousand 

heads were bowed, 
And drum and vina ceased their din, and no one spoke 

aloud. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 369 

As comes the moon from out the sea with her attendant 

breeze, 
As sweeps the morning up the hills and blossoms in the 

trees, 
So Nourmahal to Selim came : then fell upon her knees ! 

The envious jewels looked at her with chill, barbaric 

stare. 
The cloth-of-gold she knelt upon grew lusterless and 

bare, 
And all the place was cooler in the darkness of her hair. 

And while she knelt in queenly pride and beauty strange 

and wild. 
And held her breast with both her palms and looked on 

him and smiled, 
She seemed no more of common earth, but Casyapa's 

child. 

He bent to her as thus she smiled ; he kissed her lifted 

cheek ; 
" Oh Nourmahal," he murmured low, '^ more dear than I 

can speak, 
I'm weary of my lonely life : give me the rest I seek." 

She rose and paced the silken floor, as if in mad caprice, 
Then paused, and from the Empress changed to impro- 

visatrice. 
And wove this song — a golden chain — that led him into 

peace : 

" Lovely children of the light. 
Draped in radiant locks and pinions, — 
Red and purple, blue and white — 
In their beautiful dominions, 
16* 



370 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

On the earth and in the spheres, 
Dwell the little glendoveers. 



"And the red can know no change, 
And the blue are blue forever, 
And the yellow wings may range 
Toward the white or purple never. 
But they mingle free from strife, 
For their color is their life. 

** When their color dies, they die, — 
Blent with earth or ether slowly — 
Leaving where their spirits lie, 
Not a stain, so pure and holy 
Is the essence and the thought 
Which their fading brings to naught! 

" Each contented with the hue 
Which indues his wings of beauty. 
Red or yellow, white or blue. 
Sings the measure of his duty 
Through the summer clouds in peace, 
And delights that never cease. 

** Not with envy love they more 

Locks and pinions purple-tinted. 

Nor with jealousy adore 

Those whose pleasures are unstinted, 

And whose purple hair and wings 

Give them place with queens and kings. 

"When a purple glendoveer 
Flits along the mute expanses. 
They surround him, far and near. 
With their glancing wings and dances. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 37 1 

And do honor to the hue 
Loved by all and worn by few. 

" In the days long gone, alas ! 
Two upon a cloud, low-seated, 
Saw their pinions in the glass 
Of a silver lake repeated. 
One was blue and one was red, 
And the lovely pair were wed. 

" * Purple wings are very fine,' 
Spoke the voice of Ruby, gently : 

* Ay,' said Sapphire, ' they're divine ! *— 
Looking at his blue intently. 

* But to wish for change is vain,' 
Ruby said : ' We'll not complain.' 

" Sapphire stretched his loving arms, 
And she nestled on his bosom. 
While his heart inhaled her charms 
As the sense inhales a blossom ; — 
Drank her wholly, tint and tone. 
Blent her being with his own. 

" Rapture passed, they raised their eyes, 
But were startled into clamor 
Of a marvellous surprise ! 
Was it color ! was it glamour ! 
Purple-tinted, sweet and warm. 
Was each wing and folded form ! 

** Who had wrought it — how it came — 
These were what the twain disputed. 
How were mingled smoke and flame 
Into royal hue transmuted ? 



372 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Each was right, and each was wrong ; 
But their quarrel was not long, 

" For the moment that their speech 
Differed o'er their little story. 
Swiftly faded off from each 
Every trace of purple glory ; 
Blue was bluer than before, 
And the red was red once more. 

" Then they knew that both were wrong, 
And in sympathy of sorrow 
Learned that each was only strong 
In the power to lend and borrow, — 
That the purple never grew 
But by grace of red to blue. 

" So, embracing in content, 
Hearts and wings again united, 
Red and blue in purple blent, 
And their holy troth replighted, * 
Both, as happy as the day, 
Kissed, and rose, and flew away! 

" And for twice a thousand years, 
Floating through the radiant ether, 
Lived the happy glendoveers, 
Of the other, jealous neither, — 
Sapphire naught without the red, 
Ruby still by blue bested. 

*' Then when weary of their life, 
They came down to earth at even — 
Purple husband, purple wife — 
From the upper deeps of heaven, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 373 

And reclined upon the grass, 
That their little lives might pass. 

"Wing to wing and arms enwreathed, 
Sinking from their life's long dreaming 
Into earth their souls they breathed ; 
But when morning's light was streaming, 
All their joys and sweet regrets 
Bloomed in banks of violets ! " 



As from its dimpled fountain, at its own capricious will, 
Each step a note of music, and each fall and flash a 

thrill. 
The rill goes singing to the meadow levels and is still. 

So fell from Nourmahal her song upon the captive sense ; 
It dashed in spray against the throne, it tinkled through 

the tents, 
And died at last among the flowery banks of recompense ; 

For when great Selim marked her fire, and read her riddle 

well, 
And watched her from the flushing to the fading of the 

spell, 
He sprang forgetful from his seat, and caught her as she 

fell. 

He raised her in his tender arms ; he bore her to his 

throne : 
" No more, oh! Nourmahal, my wife, no more I sit alone ; 
And the future for the dreary past shall royally atone ! " 

He called to him the princes and the nobles of the 
land. 



374 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Then took the signet-ring from his, and placed it on her 
hand, 

And bade them honor as his own, fair Nourmahal's com- 
mand. 

And on the minted silver that his largess scattered wide, 
And on the gold of commerce, till the mighty Selim died, 
Her name and his in shining boss stood equal, side by 
side. 

XXII. 

The opening of the wondrous tome 
Was like the opening of a door 
Into a vast and pictured dome. 
Crowded, from vaulted roof to floor, 
With secrets of her life and home. 

To be like Philip was to be 
Another Philip — only less ! 
To win his wit in full degree 
Would bear to him but nothingness, 
From one no wiser grown than he ! 

If blue and red in Hindostan 
At home were also red and blue, 
She learned that woman and that man 
Had never worn the royal hue 
Till blue and red together ran 

In complement of each to each ; 

She might not tint his life at all 

By learning wisdom he could teach ; 

So what she gave, though poor and small. 

Should be of that beyond his reach. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 2)7 S 

Where Philip fed, she would not feed ; 
Where Philip walked, she would not go ; 
The books he read she would not read, 
But live her separate life, and, so, 
Have sole supplies to meet his need. 

He held his mission and his range ; 
His way and work were all his own ; 
And she would give him in exchange 
What she could win and she alone. 
Of life and learning, fresh and strange. 



XXIII. 

While thus she sat in musing mood, 
Determining her life's emprise, 
The sunlight flushed the distant wood, 
Then, coming closer, filled her eyes, 
And glorified her solitude. 

The clouds were shivered by the lance 
Sped downward by the morning sun, 
And from her heart, in swift advance. 
The shadows vanished, one by one. 
Till more than sunlight filled the manse. 

She closed the volume with a gust 
That sprent the light with powdered gold ; 
Then placed it high to hide and rust 
Where, curious and over-bold 
She found it, lying in its dust. 

Her soul was light, her path was plain; 
One shadow only drooped above, — 



376 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

The shadow of a heart and brain 
So charged with overwhelming love 
That it oppressed and gave her pain. 

The modest comb that kept her hair ; 
To Philip was a golden crown ; 
And every ringlet was a snare, 
And every hat, and every gown 
And slipper, something more than fair. 

His love had glorified her grace, 
And she was his, and not her own, — 
So wholly his she had no place 
Beside him on his lonely throne, 
Or share in love's divine embrace. 

But still she saw and held her plan, 
And fear made way for springing hope. 
If she was man's, then hers was man : 
Both held their own in even scope ; 
And then and there her life began. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHIES. 



I. 



A WIFE is like an unknown sea ; — 
Least known to him who thinks he knows 
Where all the Shores of Promise be, 
Where lie the Islands of Repose, 
And where the rocks that he must flee. 

Capricious winds, uncertain tides, 
*Drive the young sailor on and on, 
Till all his charts and all his guides 
Prove false, and vain conceit is gone. 
And only docile Love abides. 

Where lay the shallows of the maid, 
No plummet-line the wife may sound ; 
Where round the sunny islands played 
The pulses of the great profound. 
Lies low the treacherous everglade. 

And, as he sails, he is, perforce, 
Discoverer of a strange new world ; 
And finds, whate'er may be his course, 
Green lands within white seas impearled. 
With streams of unsuspected source 



3/8 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Which feed with gold delicious fruits, 

Kept by unguessed Hesperides, 

Or cool the lips of gentle brutes 

That breed and browse among the trees 

Whose wind-tossed limbs and leaves are lutes. 

The maiden free, the maiden wed, 
Can never, never be the same. 
A new life springs from out the dead, 
And, with the speaking of a name, 
A breath upon the marriage-bed, 

She finds herself a something new — 

(Which he learns later, but no less) ; 

And good and evil, false and true. 

May change their features — who can guess ? — 

Seen close, or from another view. 

For maiden life, with all its fire. 
Is hid within a grated cell. 
Where every fancy and desire 
And graceless passion, guarded well, 
Sits dumb behind the woven wire. 

Marriage is freedom : only when 
The husband turns the prison -key 
Knows she herself ; nor even then 
Knows she more wisely well than he 
Who finds himself least wise of men. 

New duties bring new powers to birth, 

And new relations, new surprise 

Of depths of weakness or of worth. 

Until he doubt if her disguise 

Mask more of heaven, or more of earth. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 379 

Tears spring "beneath a careless touch ; 
Endurance hardens with a word ; 
She holds a trifle with a clutch 
So strangely, childishly absurd, 
That he who loves and pardons much 

Doubts if her wayward wit be sane. 
When straight beyond his manly power 
She stiffens to the awful strain 
Of some supreme or crucial hour, 
And stands unblanched in fiercest pain ! 

A jealous thought, a petty pique. 
Enwraps in gloom, or bursts in storm ; 
She questions all that love may speak, 
And weighs its tone, and marks its form, 
Or yields her frailty to a freak 

That vexes him or breeds disgust; 
Then rises in heroic flame. 
And treads a danger into dust. 
Or puts his doubting soul to shame 
With love unfeigned and perfect trust. 

Still seas unknown the husband sails ; 
Life-long the lovely marvel lasts ; 
In golden calms or driving gales, 
With silent prow or reeling masts, 
Each hour a fresh surprise unveils. 

The brooding, threatening bank of mist 
Grows into groups of virid isles. 
By sea embraced and sunlight kissed, 
Or breaks into resplendent smiles 
Of cinnabar and amethyst! 



380 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

No day so bright but scuds may fall, 
No day so still but winds may blow ; 
No morn so dismal with the pall 
Of wintry storm, but stars may glow 
When evening gathers, over all ! 

And so thought Philip, when, in haste 
Returning from his lengthened stay — 
The river and the lawn retraced — 
He found his Mildred blithe and gay. 
And all his anxious care a waste. 

To be half vexed that she could thrive 
Without him through a morning's span, 
Upon the honey in her hive, 
Was but to prove himself a man, 
And show that he was quite alive ! 



II. 

A sympathetic word or kiss, 
(Mildred had insight to discern,) 
Though grateful quite, is quite amiss, 
In leading to the life etern 
The soul that has no bread in this. 

The present want must aye be fed, 
And first relieved the present care : 
"Give us this day our daily bread" 
Must be recited in our prayer 
Before "forgive us" may be said. 

And he who lifts a soul from vice, 
And leads the way to better lands ; 
Must part his raiment, share his slice, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 38 1 

And oft with weary, bleeding hands, 
Pave the long path with sacrifice. 

So on a pleasant summer morn. 
Wrapped in her motive, sweet and safe, 
She sought the homes of sin and scorn, 
And found her little Sunday waif 
Ragged, and hungry, and forlorn. 

She called her quickly to her knee ; 
And with her came a motley troop 
Of children, poor and foul as she. 
Who gathered in a curious group. 
And ceased their play, to hear and see. 

Tanned brown by all the summer suns. 
With brutish brows and vacant eyes. 
They drank her speech and ate her buns, 
While she behind their sad disguise 
Beheld her dear Lord's " little ones." 

She stood like Ruth amid the wheat. 
With ready hand and sickle keen, 
And looked on all with aspect sweet ; 
For where she only thought to glean, 
She found a harvest round her feet. 

Ah ! little need the tale to write 

Of garments begged from door to door. 

Of needles plying in the night. 

And money gathered from the store 

Alike of screw and Sybarite, 

With which to clothe the little flock. 
She went like one sent forth of God 



382 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

To loose the bolts of heart and lock, 
And with the smiting of her rod 
To call a flood from every rock. 

And little need the tale to tell 
How, when the Sunday came again, 
A wondrous change the group befell, 
And how from every noisome den. 
Responding to the chapel bell, 

They issued forth with shout and call, 
And Mildred walking at their head, 
Who, with her silken parasol, 
Bannered the army that she led. 
And with low words commanded all. 

The little army walked through smiles 
That hung like lamps above their march. 
And lit their swart and straggling files, 
While bending elm and plumy larch 
Shaped into broad cathedral aisles 

The paths that led with devious trend 
To where the ivied chapel stood. 
There their long passage found its end. 
And there they gathered in a brood 
Of gentle clamor round their friend. 

A score pressed in on either side 

To share the burden of her care. 

And hearts and house gave entrance wide 

To those to whom the words of prayer 

Were stranger than the curse of pride. 

And Mildred who, without a thought 
Of glory in her week's long task. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 385 

This marvel of the week had wrought, 
Had earned the boon she would not ask, 
And won more love than she had sought. 



III. 

As two who walk through forest aisles, 
Lit all the way by forest flowers. 
Divide at morn through twin defiles 
To meet again in distant hours, 
With plunder plucked from all the miles. 

So Philip and so Mildred went 
Into their walks of daily life, — 
Parting at morn with sweet consent, 
And — tireless husband, busy wife — 
Together when the day was spent. 

Bringing the treasures they had won 
From sundered tracks of enterprise. 
To learn from each what each had done. 
And prove each other grown more wise 
Than when the morning was begun. 

He strengthened her with manly thought 
And learning, gathered from the great ; 
And she, whose quicker eye had caught 
The treasures of the broad estate 
Of common life and learning, brought 

Her gleanings from the level field. 
And gave them gladly to his hands, 
Who had not dreamed that they could yield 
Such sheaves, or hold within their bands 
Such wealth of lovely flowers concealed. 



3S4 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

His grave discourse, his judgment sure, 
Gave tone and temper to her soul, 
While her swift thoughts and vision pure. 
And mirth that would not brook control. 
And wit that kept him insecure 

Within his dignified repose, 
Refreshed and quickened him like wine. 
No tender word or dainty gloze 
Could give him pleasure half so fine 
As that which tingled to her blows. 

He gave her food for heart and mind, 
And raised her toward his higher plane ; 
She showed him that his eyes were blind 5 
She proved his lofty wisdom vain. 
And held him humbly with his kind. 



IV. 

Oh, blessed sleep ! in which exempt 
From our tired selves long hours we lie. 
Our vapid worthlessness undreamt. 
And our poor spirits saved thereby 
From perishing of self-contempt ! 

We weary of our petty aims ; 
We sicken with our selfish deeds ; 
We shrink and shrivel in the flames 
That low desire ignites and feeds. 
And grudge the debt that duty claims 

Oh sweet forgetfulness of sleep ! 
Oh bliss, to drop the pride of dress, 
And all the shams o'er which we weep, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 385 

And, toward our native nothingness, 
To drop ten thousand fathoms deep ! 

At morning only — strong, erect — 
We face our mirrors not ashamed ; 
For then alone we meet unflecked 
The image we at evening blamed, 
And find refreshed our self-respect. 

Ah ! little wonderment that those. 
Who see us most and love us best, 
Find that a true affection grows 
More strong and sweet in tone and zest 
Through frequent partings and repose. 

Our fruit grows dead in pulp and rind 
When seen and handled overmuch ; 
The roses fade, our fingers bind ; 
And with familiar kiss and touch 
The graces wither from our kind. 

Man lives on love, at love's expense, 
And woman, so her love be sweet ; 
Best honey palls upon the sense 
When it is tempted to repeat 
Too oft its fine experience. 

And Mildred, with instinctive skill, 
And loving neither most nor least. 
Stood out from Philip's grasping will, 
And gave, where he desired a feast, 
The taste that left him hungry still. 

She hid her heart behind a mask, 
And held him to his manly course; 
17 



386 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

One hour in love she bade him bask, 
And then she drove, with playful force, 
The laggard to his daily task. 

They went their way and kept their care, 

And met again — their toil complete, — 

Like angels on a heavenly stair, 

Or pilgrims in a golden street. 

Grown stronger one, and one more fair ! 



V. 

As one worn down by petty pains, 
With fevered head and restless limb, . 
Flies from the toil that stings and stains. 
And all the cares that wearied him. 
And some far, silent summit gains ; 

And in its strong, sweet atmosphere, 
Or in the blue, or in the green, 
Finds his discomforts disappear. 
And loses in the pure serene 
The garnered humors of a year ; 

And sees not how and knows not when 
The old vexations leave their seat, 
So Philip, happiest of men. 
Saw all his petty cares retreat. 
And vanish, not to come again. 

Where he had thought to shield and serve, 
Himself had ministry instead ; 
He heard no vexing call to swerve 
From larger toil, for labors sped 
By Mildred's finer wit and nerve. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 38/ 

In deft and deferential ways 
She took the house by silent siege ; 
And Dinah, warmest in her praise, 
Grew, unaware, her loyal liege, 
And served her truly all her days. 

And many a sad and stricken maid, 
And many a lorn and widowed life 
That came for counsel or for aid 
To Philip, met the pastor's wife, 
And on her heart their burden laid. 



VI. 



He gave her what she took — her will; 
And made it space for life full-orbed. 
He learned at last that every rill 
Loses its freshness, when absorbed 
By the great stream that turns the mill. 

With hand ungrasping for her dower, 
He found its royal income his ; 
And every swiftly kindling power — 
Self-moved in its activities — . 
Becoming brighter every hour. 

The air is sweet which we inspire 
When it is free to come and go ; 
And sound of brook and scent of brier 
Rise freshest where the breezes blow, 
That feed our breath and fan our fire. 

That love is weak which is too strong ; 
A man may be a woman's grave ; 



388 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

The right of love swells oft to wrong, 
And silken bonds may bind a slave 
As truly as a leathern thong. 

We may not dine upon the bird 
That fills our home with minstrelsy ; 
The living vine may never gird 
Too firm and close the living tree, 
Without sad sacrifice incurred. 

The crystal goblet that we drain 

Will be forever after dry ; 

But he who sips, and sips again, 

And leaves it to the open sky. 

Will find it filled with dew and rain. 

The lilies burst, the roses blow 

Into divinest balm and bloom. 

When free above and free below ; 

And life and love must have large room, 

That life and love may largest grow. 

So Philip learned (what Mildred saw), 
That love is like a well profound. 
From which two souls have right to draw. 
And in whose waters will be drowned 
The one who takes the other's law. 



VII. 

Ambition was an alien word, 
Which Mildred faintly understood ; 
Its poisoned breathing had not blurred 
The whiteness of her womanhood. 
Nor had its blatant trumpet stirred 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 389 

To quicker pulse her heart content. 
In social tasks and home employ, 
She did not question what it meant ; 
But bore her woman's lot with joy 
And sweetness, wheresoe'er she went. 

If ever with unconscious thrill 
It touched her, in some vagrant dream, 
She only wished that God would fill 
With larger tide the goodly stream 
That flowed beside her, strong and still. 

She knew that love was more than fame, 
And happy conscience more than love ; — 
Far off and wild, the wings of flame ! 
Close by, the pinions of the dove 
That hovered white above her name ! 

She honored Philip as a man. 
And joyed in his supreme estate ; 
But never dreamed that under ban 
She lives who never can be great, 
Or chieftain of a crowd or clan. 

The public eye was like a knife 

That pierced and plagued her shrinking heart. 

To be a woman, and a wife. 

With privilege to dwell apart, 

And hold unseen her modest life — 

Alike from praise and blame aloof; 
And free to live and move in peace 
Beneath Love's consecrated roof — 
Was boon so great she could not cease 
Her thanks for the divine behoof. 



390 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Black turns to rust and blue to blight 
Beneath the shining of the sun ; 
And e'en the spotless robe of white, 
Worn overlong, grows dim and dun 
Through the strange alchemy of light. 

Nor wife nor maiden, weak or brave, 
Can stand and face the public stare. 
And win the plaudits she may crave, 
And stem the hisses she may dare. 
And modest truth and beauty save. 

No woman, in her soul, is she 
Who longs to poise above the roar 
Of motley multitudes, and be 
The idol at whose feet they pour 
The wine of their idolatry. 

Coarse labor makes its doer coarse ; 
Great burdens harden softest hands ; 
A gentle voice grows harsh and hoarse 
That warns and threatens and commands 
Beyond the measure of its force. 

Oh sweet, beyond all speech, to feel 
Within no answer to the drum, 
Or echo to the bugle-peal. 
That calls to duties which benumb 
In service of the commonweal ! 

Oh sweet to feel, beyond all speech, 
That most and best of human kind 
Have leave to live beyond the reach 
Of toil that tarnishes, and find 
No tongue but Envy's to impeach ! , 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 39I 

Oh sweet, that most unnoticed deeds 
Give play to fine, heroic blood ! — 
That hid from light, and shut from weeds, 
The rose is fairer in its bud 
Than in the blossom that succeeds ! 

He is the helpless slave who must ; 
And she enfranchised who may sit 
Unblamed above the din and dust, 
Where stronger hands and coarser wit 
Strive equally for crown and crust. 

So ran her thought, and broader yet, 
Who scanned her own by Philip's pace ; 
And never did the wife forget 
Her grateful tribute for the grace 
That charged her with so sweet a debt. 

So ran her thought ; and in her breast 
Her wifely pride to pity grew. 
That Philip, by his Lord's behest — 
To duty and to nature true — 
Must do his bravest and his best, 

Through winter's cold and summer's heat, 
Where all might praise and all might blame, 
And thus be topic of the street. 
And see his fair and honest name 
A football, kicked by careless feet. 

She loved her creed, and doubting not 

She read it well from Nature's scroll, 

She found no line or word to blot ; 

But, from her woman's modest soul, ' 

Thanked her Creator for her lot. 



392 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



VIII. 

He who, upon an Alpine peak, 
Stands, when the sunrise Hfts the East, 
And gilds the crown and lights the cheek 
Of largest monarch down to least, 
Of all the summits cold and bleak, 

Finds sadly that it brings no boon 
For all his long and toilsome leagues, 
And chill at once and weary soon. 
Rests from his fevers and fatigues, 
And waits the recompense of noon. 

For then the valleys, near and far, 
The hillsides, fretted by the vine. 
The glacier-drift, the torrent-scar 
Whose restless waters shoot and shine, 
The silver tarn, that like a star 

Trembles and flames with stress of light. 
And scattered hamlet and chalet 
That dot with brown, or paint with white, 
The landscape quivering in the day, 
With beauty all his toil requite. 

Mountains, from mountain altitudes. 

Are only hills, as bleak and bare ; 

And he whose daring step intrudes 

Upon their grandeur, and the rare 

Cold light or gloom that o'er them broods. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 393 

Finds that with even brow to stand 
Among the heights that bade him cUmb, 
Is loss of all that made them grand, 
While all of lovely and sublime 
Looks up to him from lake and land. 

Great men are few, and stand apart ; 
And seem divinest when remote. 
From brain to brain, and heart to heart, 
No thoughts of genial commerce float: 
Each holds his own exclusive mart. 

And when we meet them, face to face, 
And hand to hand their greatness greet, 
Our steps we willingly retrace, 
And gather humbly at their feet. 
With those who live upon their grace. 

And man and woman — mount and vale — 
Have charms, each from the other seen, — - 
The robe of rose, the coat of mail : 
The springing turf, the black ravine : 
The tossing pines, the waving swale : 

Which please the sight with constant joy. 
Thus living, each has power to call 
The other's thoughts with sweet decoy, 
And one can rise and one can fall 
But to distemper or destroy. 

The dewy meadow breeds the cloud 
That rises on ethereal wings. 
And wraps the mountain in a shroud 
From which the living lightning springs 
And torrents pour, that, lithe and loud^ 
17* 



394 I'HE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Leap down in service to the plains, 
Or feed the fountains at their source ; 
And only thus the mountain gains 
The vital fulness of the force 
That fills the meadow's myriad veins. 

In fair, reciprocal exchange 
Of good which each appropriates. 
The meadow and the mountain-range 
Nourish their beautiful estates ; 
And lofty wild and lowly grange 

Thrive on the commerce thus ordained ; 
And not a reek ascends the rock, 
And not a drift of dew is rained, 
But eyrie-brood or tended flock 
By the sweet gift is entertained. 

A meadow may be fair and broad. 
And hold a river in its rest ; 
Or small, and with the silver gaud 
Of a lone lakelet on its breast, 
Or but a patch, that, overawed. 

Clings humbly to the mountain's hem : 
It matters not : it is the charm 
That cheers his life, and holds the stem 
Of every flower that tempts his arm, 
Or greets his snowy diadem. 

Dolts talk of largest and of least. 
And worse than dolts are they who prate 
Of Beauty captive to the Beast ; 
For man in woman finds his mate. 
And thrones her equal at his feast. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 395 

She matches meekness with his might, 
And patience with -his power to act, — 
His judgment with her quicker sight ; 
And wins by subtlety and tact 
The battles he can only fight. 

And she who strives to take the van 
In conflict, or the common way, 
Does outrage to the heavenly plan, 
And outrage to the finer clay 
That makes her beautiful to man. 

All this, and more than this, she saw 
Who reigned in Philip's house and heart. 
Far off, he seemed without a flaw ; 
Close by, her tasteless counterpart, 
And slave to Nature's common law. 

To climb with fierce, familiar stride 
His dizzy paths of Hfe and thought, 
Would but degrade him from her pride, 
And bring the majesty to naught 
Which love and distance magnified. 

If she should grow like him, she knew 
He would admire and love her less ; 
The eagle's image might be true, 
But eagle of the wilderness 
Would find no consort in the view. 

A woman, in her woman's sphere, 
A loyal wife and worshipper, 
She only thirsted to appear 
As fair to him as he to her, 
And fairer still, from year to year. 



39^ THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

And he who quickly learned to purge 
His fancy of the tender whim 
That she was floating at the verge 
Of womanhood, half hid to him, 
Saw her with gracious mien emerge, 

And stand full-robed upon the shore, 

With faculties and charms unguessed ; 

With wondrous eyes that looked before, 

And hands that helped and words that blessed- 

The mistress of an alien lore 

Beyond the wisdom of the schools 
And all his manly power to win ; 
With handicraft of tricks and tools 
That conjured marvels with a pin, 
And miracles with skeins and spools ! 

She seemed to mock his dusty dearth 
With flowers that sprang beneath his eyes ; 
Till all he was, seemed little worth. 
And she he deemed so little wise, 
Became the wisest of the earth. 

In all the struggles of his soul, 
And all the strifes his soul abhorred, 
She shone before him like a goal — 
A shady bower of fresh reward — 
A shallop riding in the mole, 

That waited with obedient helm 
To bear him over sparkling seas, 
Into a new and fragrant realm, 
Before the vigor of a breeze 
That drove, but might not overwhelm. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 397 



IX. 



To symmetry the oak is grown 
Which all winds visit on the lea, 
While that which lists the monotone 
Of the long blast that sweeps the sea, 
And answers to its breath alone, 

Turns with aversion from the breeze, 
And stretches all its stunted limbs 
Landward and heavenward, toward the trees 
That listen to a thousand hymns, 
And grow to grander destinies. 

Man may not live on whitest loaves. 
With all of coarser good dismissed ; 
He pines and starves who never roves 
Beyond the holy eucharist, 
To gather of the fields and groves. 

And he who seeks to fill his heart 
With solace of a single friend, 
Will find refreshment but in part. 
Or, sadder still, will find the end 
Of all his reach of thought and art. 

They who love best need friendship most ; 

Hearts only thrive on varied good ; 

And he who gathers from a host 

Of friendly hearts his daily food. 

Is the best friend that we can boast. 



398 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

She left her husband with his friends ; 
She called them round him at her board ; 
And found their culture made amends 
For all the time that, from her hoard, 
She spared him for these nobler ends. 

He was her lover ; that sufficed : 
His home was in the Holy Place 
With that of the Beloved Christ. 
And friendship had no subtle grace 
By which his love could be enticed. 

Of all his friends, she was but one : 
She held with them a common field. 
Exclusive right — with love begun — 
Ended with love, and stood repealed, 
Leaving his friendship free to run 

Toward man or woman, all unmissed. 
She knew she had no right to bind 
His friendship to her single wrist, 
So long as love was true and kind, 
And made her its monopolist. 

No time was grudged with jealous greed 
Which either books or friendship claimed. 
He was her friend, and she had need 
Of all — unhindered and unblamed — 
That he could win, through word or deed. 

Her friend waxed great as grew the man ; 
Her temple swelled as rose her priest — 
With power to bless and right to ban ; — 
And all who served him, most or least, — 
From chorister and sacristan 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 399 

To those whose frankincense and myrrh 
Perfumed the sacred courts with alms, — 
Were gracious ministers to her, 
Who found the largess in her palms, 
And him the friendly almoner. 



X. 



The river of their life was one ; 
The shores down which they passed were two ; 
One mirrored mountains, huge and dun, 
The other crimped the green and blue. 
And sparkled in the kindly sun ! 

Twin barks, with answering flags, they moved 
With even canvas down the stream, 
In smooth or ruffled waters grooved, 
And found such islands in their dream 
As rest and loving speech behooved. 

Ah fair the goodly gardens smiled 
On Philip at his rougher strand ! 
And grandly loomed the summits, isled 
In seas of cloud, to her who scanned 
From her far shore the lofty wild. 

Two lives, two loves — both self-forgot 
In loyal homage to their oath ; 
Two lives, two loves, but living not 
By ministry that reached them both, 
In service of a common lot, 



400 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

They sailed the stream ; and every mile 
Broadened with beauty as they passed ; 
And fruitful shore and trysting-isle, 
And all love's intercourse were glassed 
And blessed in Heaven's benignant smile. 



LOVE'S CONSUMMATIONS. 

The summer passed, the autumn came ; 
The world swung over toward the night ; 
The forests robed themselves in flame, 
Then faded slowly into white ; 
And set within a crystal frame 

Of frozen streams, the shaggy boles 
Of oak and elm, with leafless crowns, 
Were painted stark upon the knolls ; 
And cots and villages and towns 
On virgin canvas glowed like coals 

In tawny red, or strove in vain 

To shame the white in which they stood. 

The fairest tint was but a stain 

Upon the snow, that quenched the wood. 

And paved the street, and draped the plain ! 



II. 

Oh! Southern cheeks are quick to feel 
The magic finger of the frost ; 
And Mildred heard but one long peal 
From the fierce Arctic, which embossed 
Her window-panes, and set the seal 



402 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Of cold on all her eye beheld, 

When through her veins there swept new fire. 

And, in her answering bosom, swelled 

New purposes and new desire, 

And force to higher deeds impelled. 

Ah ! well for her the languor cast 
That followed from her Southern clime ! 
The time would come — was coming fast, — 
Love's consummated, crowning time — 
Of which her heart had antepast ! 

A strange new life was in her breast ; 
Her eyes were full of wondrous dreams ; 
She sailed all whiles from crest to crest 
Of a broad ocean, through whose gleams 
She saw an island wrapped in rest ! 

And as she drove across the sea, 
Toward the fair port that fixed her gaze, 
Her life was like a rosary. 
Whose slowly counted beads were days 
Of prayer for one that was to be ! 



III. 

Oh roses, roses ! Who shall sing 

The beauty of the flowers of God ! 

Or thank the angel from whose wing 

The seeds are scattered on the sod 

From which such bloom and perfume spring! 

Sure they have heavenly genesis 
Which make a heaven of every place ; 
Which company our bale and bliss, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 403 

And never to our sinning race 
Speak aught unhallowed, or amiss ! 

When love is grieved, their buds atone ; 
When love is M^ed, their forms are near ; 
They blend their breathing with the moan 
Of love when dying, and the bier 
Is white with them in every zone. 

No spot is mean that they begem ; 
No nosegay fair that holds them not ; 
They melt the pride and stir the phlegm 
Of lord and churl, in court and cot, 
And weave a common diadem 

For human brows where'er they grow. 

They write all languages of red, 

They speak all dialects of snow. 

And all the words of gold are said 

With fragrant meanings where they blow ! 

Oh sweetest flowers ! Oh flowers divine I 
In which God comes so closely down, 
We gather from his chosen sign 
The tints that cluster in his crown — 
The perfume of his breath benign ! 

Oh, sweetest flowers ! Oh, flowers that hold 

The fragrant life of Paradise 

For a brief day, shut fold in fold, 

That we may drink it in a trice. 

And drop the empty pink and gold ! 

Oh sweetest flowers, that have a breath 
For every passion that we feel ! 



404 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

That tell us what the Master saith 
Of blessing, in our woe and weal, 
And all events of life and death ! 



IV. 

The time of roses came again ; 
And one had bloomed within the manse,- 
Bloomed in a burst of midnight pain, 
And plumed its life in fair expanse, 
Beneath love's nursing sun and rain. 

Such tendance ne'er had flower before ! 
Such beauty ne'er had flower returned! 
Found on that distant island-shore, 
Whose secret she at last had learned, 
And made her own for evermore, 

Mildred consigned it to her breast ; 
And though she knew it took its hue 
From her, it seemed the Lord's bequest,- 
Still sparkling with the heavenly dew. 
And still with heavenly beauty dressed. 

Oh, roses ! ye were wondrous fair 

That summer by the river side ! 

For hearts were blooming everywhere, 

In sympathy of love and pride, 

With that which came to Mildred's carCo 

And rose as red as rose could be 
Was Philip's heart with joy abloom. 
That cast its fragrance far and free, 
And filled his lonely, silent room 
With rapture of paternity ! 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 405 

V. 

The evening fell on field and street ; 

The glow-worm lit his phosphor lamp, 

For fairy forms and fairy feet, 

That gathered for their nightly tramp 

Where grass was green and flowers were sweet. 

In devious circles, round and round. 
The night-hawk coursed the twilight sky, 
Or shot like lightning the profound, 
With breezy thunder in the cry 
That marked his furious rebound ! 

The zephyrs breathed through elm and ash, 
From new-mown hay and heliotrope, 
And came through Philip's open sash 
With sheen of stars that lit the cope, 
And twinkling of the fire-fly's flash. 

He heard the baby's weary plaint ; 
He heard the mother's soothing words ; 
And sitting in his hushed restraint, 
One voice was murmur of the birds, 
And one the hymning of a saint ! 

And as he sat alone, immersed 

In the fond fancies of the time, 

Her voice in mellow music burst, 

And by a rhythmic stair of rhyme 

Led down to sleep the child she nursed. 

*^ Rockaby, lullaby, bees on the clover!—- 
Crooning so drowsily, crying so low — 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover ! 



406 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Down into wonderland — 
Down to the under-land— 
Go, oh go ! 
Down into wonderland go ! 

" Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover! 
Tears on the eyelids that struggle and weep ! 
Rockaby, lullaby — bending it over ! 

Down on the mother world, 

Down on the other world ! 
Sleep, oh sleep ! 
Down on the mother- world sleep! 

"Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! 
Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn ! 
Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover ! 

Into the stilly world! 

Into the lily world, 
Gone ! oh gone ! 
Into the lily world, gone ! " 



VI. 



They sprouted like the prophet's gourd; 
They grew within a single night ; 
So swift his busy years were scored 
That, ere he knew, his hope was white 
With harvest bending round his board ! 

And eyes were black and eyes were blue, 
And blood of mother and of sire, 
Each to its native humor true. 
Blent Northern force with Southern fire 
In strength and beauty, strange and new.. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 407 

The Gallic brown, the Saxon snow, 
The raven locks, the flaxen curls, 
Were so commingled in the flow 
Of the new blood of boys and girls, 
That Puritan and Huguenot 

In love's alembic were advanced 

To higher types and finer forms ; 

And ardent humors thrilled and danced 

Through veins that tempered all their storms, 

Or held them in restraint entranced. 

Oh ! many times, as flew the years, 
The dainty cradle-song was sung ; 
And bore its balm to restless ears, 
As one by one the nested young 
Slept in their willows and their tears. 

To each within the reedy glade. 

Hid from some tyrant's cruel schemes, 

It was a princess, or her maid, 

Who bore him to the realm of dreams. 

And made him seer by accolade 

Of flaming bush and parted deep. 
Of gushing rocks and raining corn, 
And fire and cloud, and lengthened sweep 
Of thousands toward the promised morn. 
Across the wilderness of sleep ! 



VII. 

The years rolled on in grand routine 
Of useful toil and chastening care. 



408 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Till Philip, grown to heights serene 

Of conscious power, and ripe with prayer^ 

Took on the strong and stately mien 

Of one on whom had been conferred 
The doing of a knightly deed : 
And waited till it bade him gird 
The harness on him and his steed, 
For man and for his Master's word. 

His name was spoken far and near, 
And sounded sweet on every tongue ; 
Men knew him only to revere, 
And those who knew him nearest, flung 
Their hearts before his grand career, 

And paved his way with loyal trust. 
He was their strongest, noblest man, — 
Sworn foe of every selfish lust. 
And brave to do as wise to plan. 
And swift to judge as pure and just. 

VIII. 

Against such foil the mistress stood — 
A pearl upon a cross of gold — 
White with consistent womanhood. 
And fixed with unrelaxing hold 
Upon the centre of the rood ! 

Through all those years of loving thrift, 
Nor blame nor discord marred their lot ; 
Each to the lover-life was gift ; 
And each was free from blur or blot 
That called for silence or for shrift. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 409 

Both bore the burden they upheld 

With patient hands along the road ; 

And though, with passing years, it swelled 

Until it grew a weary load, 

Nor tongue complained, nor heart rebelled. 

At length the time of trial came. 
And they were tried as gold is tried. 
Their peace of life went up in flame, 
And what was good was vilified, 
And what was blameless came to blame. 



IX. 



The Southern sky was dun with cloud; 
And looming lurid o'er its edge 
The brows of awful forms were bowed, 
That forged in flame the fateful wedge 
Which waited in the angry shroud 

The banner of the storm unfurled, 

And all the powers of death arrayed 

In black battalions, to be hurled 

Down through the rack — a blazing blade — 

To cleave the realm, and shake the world ! 

The North was full of nameless dread ; 
Wild portents flamed from out the pole ; 
Old scars on Freedom's bosom bled, 
And sick at heart and vexed of soul 
She tossed in fever on her bed ! 

Pale Commerce hid her face and whined ; 
The arms of Toil were paralyzed ; 
18 



4IO THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

The wise were of divided mind, 

And they who counselled and advised 

Were sightless leaders of the blind. 

Men lost their faith in good and great; 
No captain sprang, or prophet-bard, 
To win their trust, and save the state 
From the wild storm that, like a pard. 
On quivering haunches lay in wait ! 

The loyal only were not brave ; 
E'en Peace became a cringing dog ; 
The patriot paltered like a knave. 
And partisan and demagogue 
Quarrelled o'er Freedom's waiting grave. 



X. 

Amid the turmoil and disgrace. 

The voice was clear, from first to last, 

Of one who, in the desert place 

Of barren counsels, held him fast 

His shepherd's crook, and made it mace 

To bear before the Great Event 
Whose harbinger he chose to be, 
And called on all men to repent. 
And build a way from sea to sea. 
For Freedom's full enfranchisement. 

For Philip, to his conscience leal. 
Conceived that God had chosen him 
With Treason's sophistries to deal. 
And grapple with the Anakim 
Whose menace shook the commonweal. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 41 1 

His pulpit smoked beneath his blows ; 
His voice was heard in hall and street ; 
A thousand friends became his foes, 
And pews were empty or replete, 
With passion's ebbs and overflows. 

They trailed his good nanje in the mire; 
They spat their venom in his eyes ; 
They taunted him with mad desire 
For power, and gathered his replies 
In braver words and fiercer fire. 

He was a wolf, disguised in wool; 
He was a viper in the breast ; 
He was a villain, or the tool 
Of greater villains ; at the best, 
A blind enthusiast and fool ! 

As swelled the tempest, rose the man; 
He turned to sport their brutal spleen; 
And none could choose be slow to span 
The difference that lay between 
A Prospero and a Caliban ! 



XI. 

She would not move him otherwise, 
Although her heart was sad and sore. 
That which was venal in his eyes 
To her a lovely aspect wore. 
And helped to weave the thousand ties 

Which bound her to her youth, and all 
The loves that she had left behind 
When, from her father's stately hall, 



412 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

She came, her Northern home to find, 
With him who held her heart in thrall. 

In the dark pictures which he drew 
Of instituted shame and wrong, 
She saw no figures that she knew, 
But a confused and hateful throng 
Of forms that in his fancy grew. 

Her father's rule, benign and mild, 
Was all of slavery she had known ; 
To her, an Afric was a child — 
A charge in other ages thrown 
On Christian honor, from the wild 

Of savagery in which the Fates 

Had given him birth and dwelling-place — 

And so, descending through estates 

Of gentle vassalage, his race 

Had come to men of later dates. 

Black hands her baby form had dressed ; 
Black hands her blacker hair had curled ; 
And she had found a dusky breast 
The sweetest breast in all the world 
When she was thirsty or at rest. 

There was no touch of memory's chords- 
No picture on her blooming wall, — 
Of life upon the sunny swards 
They reproduced, — but brought recall 
Of happy slaves and gentle lords. 

And Philip charged a deadly sin 
Upon that beautiful domain, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 413 

Condemning all who dwelt therein, 
And branding with the awful stain 
Her friends, and all her dearest kin. 

Yet still she knew his conscience clear, — 

That he believed his voice was God's ; 

And listened with a voiceless fear 

To the portentous periods 

In which he preached the chosen year 

Of expiation and release. 
And prophesied that Slavery's power. 
Grown great apace with crime's increase, 
Before the front of Right should cower, 
And bid God's people go in peace ! 



XII. 

The fierce invectives of his tongue 
Frayed every day her wounds afresh. 
And with new pain her bosom wrung, 
For they envenomed kindred flesh. 
To which in sympathy she clung. 

Yet not a finger did she lift 
To hold him from his fateful task. 
Though Satan oft essayed to sift 
Her soul as wheat, and bade her ask 
Somewhat from conscience as a gift. 

And when a serpent in his slime 

Crept to her ear with phrase polite, 

Prating of duty to her time 

And to her people — swift and white 

She turned and cursed him for his crime! 



414 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

She would have naught of all the brood 
Of temporizing, driveling shows 
Of men who Philip's words withstood : 
Against them all her love uprose, 
And all her pride of womanhood. 

She loved her kindred none the less, 
She loved her husband still the more. 
For well she knew that with distress 
He saw the heavy cross she bore 
With steadfast faith and tenderness. 

No strife of jarring policies, 
No conflict of embittered states, 
No chart, defining by degrees 
Of latitude her country's hates, 
Could change her friends to enemies. 

The motives ranged on either hand, 
Behind the war of word and will. 
Were such as she could understand 
And, with respect to all, fulfill 
Love's broad and beautiful command. 

So, with all questions hushed to sleep, 
And all opinions put aside. 
She gave her loved ones to the keep 
Of God, whatever should betide. 
To bear her joy or bid her weep I 



XIII. 

Though Philip knew he wounded her, 
His faith to God and faith to man 
Bade him go forward, and incur 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 41$ 

Such cost as, since the world began, 
Has burdened Freedom's harbinger. 

No heart or hand was his to flinch 
From ease or reputation lost ; 
Nor waste of gold, nor hunger-pinch, 
Nor e'en his home's black holocaust, 
Could stay his arm. Though inch by inch, 

The maddened hosts of scorn and scath 
Should crowd him backward to defeat. 
He would but strive with sterner wrath, 
And bless the hand that, soft and sweet, 
Withheld its hinderance from his path! 



XIV. 

Still darker loomed the Southern cloud, 
While o'er its black and billowed face 
In furrowed fire the lightning ploughed. 
And ramping from his hiding-place 
Roared the wild Thunder, fierce and loud ! 

And still men chattered of their trade. 
And strove to banish their alarms ; 
And some were puzzled, some afraid. 
And some held up their feeble arms 
In indignation while they prayed ! 

And others weakly talked of schism 
As boon of God in place of war. 
And bared their foreheads for its chrism ! 
While direr than the mace of Thor, 
In mid- air hung the cataclysm 



4l6 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Which waited but some chance, or act. 

To shiver the electric spell, 

And pour in one fierce cataract 

A rain of blood and fire of hell 

On Freedom's temple spoiled and sacked. 

The politician plied his craft ; 

The demagogue still schemed and lied ; 

The patriot wept, the traitor laughed ; 

The coward to his covert hied. 

And statesmen went distract or daft. 

Contention raged in Senate halls ; 
Confusion reigned in field and town ; 
High conclaves flattened into brawls, 
And till and hammer, smock and gown, 
Nor duty knew nor heard its calls ! 



XV. 

At last, incontinent of fire. 

The cloud of menace belched its brand ; 

And every state and every shire 

And town and hamlet in the land. 

Shook with the smiting of its ire ! 

Men looked each other in the eyes, 

And beat their burning breasts and cursed! 

At last the silliest were wise ; 

And swift to flash and thunder-burst 

Fashioned in anger their replies. 

The smoke of Sumter filled the air. 
Men breathed it in in one long breath ; 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 417 

And straight upspringing everywhere, 
Life burgeoned on the mounds of death, 
And bloomed in valleys of despair. 

The fire of Sumter, fierce and hot. 
Welded their purpose into one ; 
And discord hushed, and strife forgot, 
They swore that what had thus begun 
With sacrilegious cannon-shot, 

Should find in analogue of flame 

Such answer of the nation's host, 

That the old flag, washed clean from shame 

In blood, should wave from coast to coast, 

Over one realm in heart and name ! 



XVI. 

Pale doubters, scourged by countless whips, 
Fled to their refuge, or obeyed 
The motives and the masterships 
That time and circumstance betrayed 
Through Patriotism's apocalypse, 

And, sympathetic with the spasm 

Of loyal life that thrilled the clime. 

Lost in the swift enthusiasm 

The loose intention of their crime ; 

Then leaped in swarms the awful chasm 

That held them parted from the mass. 
The North was one in heart and thought. 
And that which could not come to pass 
Through loyal eloquence, was wrought 
By one hot word from lips of brass ! 
18* 



41 8 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



XVII. 

The cry sprang upward and sped on : 
"To arms! for freedom and the flag!" 
And swift, from Maine to Oregon, 
O'er glebe and lake and mountain-crag, 
Hurtled the fierce Euroclydon. 

Men dropped their mallets on the bench, 
Forsook their ploughs on hill and plain, 
And tore themselves, with piteous wrench 
Of heart and hope, from love and gain, 
And trooped in throngs to tent and trenchc 

" To arms ! " and Philip heard the cry. 
Not his the valor cheap and small 
To bluster with brave phrase, and fly 
When trumpet blare and rifle-ball 
Proclaimed the time for words gone by ! 

Men knew their chieftain. He had borne 
Their insolence through struggling years, 
And they — the dastards, the forsworn- 
Who had ransacked the hemispheres 
For instruments to wreak their scorn 

On him and all of kindred speech, 
Gathered around him with his friends. 
And with stern plaudits heard him preach 
A gospel whose stupendous ends 
Their martyred blood could only reach. 

They gave him honor far and wide. 
As one who backed his word by deed ; 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 419 

And he whose task had been to guide, 
Was chosen by acclaim to lead 
The men who gathered at his side. 

The crook was banished for the glave ; 
The churchman's black for soldier-blue ; 
The man of peace became a brave ; 
And, in the dawn of conflict, drew 
His sword his country's life to save. 



XIX. 

They came from mead and mountain-top ; 
They came from factory and forge ; 
And one by one, from farm and shop— 
Still gravel to the Northman's gorge — 
Followed the servile Ethiop. 

Gaunt, grimy men, whose ways had been 
Among the shadows and the slums. 
With pedagogue and paladin. 
Rushed, at the rolling of the drums, 
To Philip, and were mustered in ! 

The beat of drum and scream of fife, 
Commingling with the thundering tramp 
Of trooping throngs, so changed the life 
Of the calm village that the camp, 
And what it prophesied of strife. 

And hap of loss and hap of gain. 
Became of every tongue the theme ; 
Till burning heart and throbbing brain 
Could waking think, and sleeping dream, 
Of naught but battles and the slain. 



420 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 



XX. 

With eager eyes and helpful hands 
The women met in solemn crowds, 
And shred the linen into bands 
That had been better saved for shroudSj 
Or want's imperious demands. 

And with them all sad Mildred walked, 
The bearer of a heavy cross; 
For at her side the phantom stalked — 
Nor left her for an hour — of loss 
Which by no fortune might be balked. 

For one or all she loved must fall ; 
One cause must perish in defeat; 
Success of either would appall, 
And victory, however sweet 
To others, would to her be gall. 

To each, with equal heart allied, 
Her love was like the love of God, 
That wraps the country in its tide, 
And o'er its hosts, benign and broad, 
Broods with its pity and its pride ! 

A thousand chances of the feud 

She wove and raveled one by one,— 

Of hands in kindred blood imbrued, — 

Of father, face to face with son, 

And friends turned foemen fierce and rude. 

And in her dreams two forms were met, 
Of friends as leal as ever breathed — ■ 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 421 

Her husband and her brother — wet 

With priceless blood from swords ensheathed 

In hearts that loved each other yet ! 

But itching ears her language scanned, 
And jealous eyes were on her steps ; 
And fancies into rumors fanned 
By loyal shrews and demireps 
Proclaimed her traitress to the land. 

They knew her blood, but could not knovr 
That mighty passion of her heart 
Which, reaching widely in its woe, 
Grasped all she loved on either part, 
And could not, would not let it go ! 



XXI. 

The time of gathering came and went — 
Of noisy zeal and hasty drill — 
And everywhere, in field and tent, — 
A constant presence, — Philip's will 
Moulded the callow regiment. 

And then there fell a gala day. 
When all the mighty, motley swarm 
Appeared in beautiful display 
Of burnished arms and uniform, 
And gloried in their brave array !— 

And, later still, the hour of dread 
To all the simple country round, 
When forth, with Philip at their head, 
They marched from the familiar ground, 
And drained its life, and left it dead; — 



4-22 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Dead but for those who pined with grief; 
Dead but for fears that could not die ; 
Dead as the world when flower and leaf 
Are still beneath a gathering sky, 
And ocean sleeps on reach and reef. 

The weary waiting time had come, 
When only apprehension waked ; 
And lonely wives sat chill and dumb 
Among their broods, with hearts that ached 
And echoed the retreating drum. 

Teachers forgot to preach their creeds, 
And trade forsook its merchandise ; 
The fallow fields grew rank with weeds. 
And none had interest or eyes 
For aught but war's ensanguined deeds. 

As one who lingered by a bier 
Where all she loved lay dead and cold, 
Sad Mildred sat without a tear, 
Living again the days of old, 
Or, with the vision of a seer. 

Forecasting the disastrous end. 
Whate'er might come, she did not dare 
Believe that fortune would defend 
The noble life she could not spare. 
And save her lover and her friend. 

Her blooming girls and stalwart boys 
Could never comprehend the woe 
Which dropped its measure of their joys, 
And felt but horror in the show, 
And heard but murder in the noise, 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 423 

And dreamed of death when stillness fell 
Behind the gay and shouting corps. 
They saw her haunted by the spell 
Of a great sorrow, and forebore 
To question griefs they could not quell. 

Small time she gave to vain regret ; 

Brief space to thought of that adieu 

Which crushed her breast, when last they met, 

And in love's baptism bathed anew 

Cheeks, lips, and eyes, and left them wet 2 

In deeds of sympathy and grace, 
She moved among the homes forlorn, 
Ailke to beautiful and base 
And to the stricken and the shorn, 
The guardian angel of the place. 



XXII. 

Oh piteous waste of hopes and fears ! 
Oh cruel stretch of long delay ! 
Oh homes bereft ! Oh useless tears ! 
Oh war! that ravened on its prey 
Through Pain's immeasurable years ! 

The town was mourning for its dead ; 
The streets were black with widowhood ; 
While orphaned children begged for bread. 
And Rachel, for the brave and good, 
Mourned, and would not be comforted. 

The regiment that, straight and crisp, 
Shone like a wheat- field in the sun, 



424 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Its swift voice deafened to a lisp. 
Fell, ere the war was well begun, 
And waned and withered to a wisp. 

And Philip, grown to higher rank. 
Crowned with the bays of splendid deeds 
Of the full cup of glory drank, 
And lived, though all his reeking steeds 
In the red front of conflict sank. 

The star of conquest waxed or waned, 
Yet still the call came back for men ; 
Still the lamenting town was drained, 
And still again, and still again, 
Till only impotence remained ! 



XXIII. 

There came at length an eve of gloom — 
Dread Gettysburg's eventful eve — 
When all the gathering clouds of doom 
Hung low, the breathless air to cleave 
With scream of shell and cannon-boom ! 

Man knew too well, and woman felt 
That when the next wild morn should rise, 
A blow of battle would be dealt 
Before whose fire ten thousand eyes— 
As in a furnace flame — would melt. 

And on this eve — her flock asleep — 
Knelt Mildred at her lonely bed. 
She could not pray, she did not weep. 
But only moaned, and, moaning, said : 
'* Oh God ! he sows what I must reap ! 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 425 

r 

" He will not live : he must not die ! 
But oh, my poor, prophetic heart ! 
It warns me that there lingers nigh 
The hour when love and I must part ! " 
And then she startled with a cry. 

For, from beneath her lattice, came 
A low and once repeated call ! 
She knew the voice that spoke her name, 
And swiftly through the midnight hall 
She fluttered noiseless as a flame, 

And on its unresisting hinge 
Threw wide her hospitable door, 
To one whose spirit could not cringe 
Though he was shelterless, and bore 
No right her freedom to infringe. 

She wildly clasped his neck of bronze ; 
She rained her kisses on his face. 
Grown tav/ny with a thousand sur , 
And holding him in her embrace. 
She led him to her little ones. 

Who, reckless of his coming, slept. 
Then down the stair with silent feet 
And through the shadowy hall she swept. 
And saw, between her and the street, 
A form that into darkness crept. 

She closed the door with speechless dread ; 
She fixed the bolt with trembling hand ; 
Then led the rebel to his bed. 
Whom love and safety had unmanned. 
And left him less alive than dead. 



426 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

Through nights and days of fear and grief, 
She kept her faithful watch and ward, 
But love and rest brought no relief; 
And all he begged for of his Lord 
Was death, with passion faint and brief. 



XXIV. 

Around the house were prying eyes. 
And gossips hiding under trees ; 
And Mildred heard the steps of spies 
At midnight, when, upon her knees. 
She sought the comfort of the skies. 

Strange voices rose upon the night; 
Strange errands entered at the gate ; 
Her hours were months of pale affright ; 
Though still her prisoner of state 
Was shielded from their eager sight. 

And there were hirelings in pursuit. 
Who thirsted for his golden price ; 
And, swift allied with pimp and brute, 
And quick to purchase and entice, 
They found the tree that held their fruit. 



XXV. 

The day of Gettysburg had set; 

The smoke had drifted from the scene. 

And burnished sword and bayonet 

Lay rusting where, but yestere'en. 

They dropped with life-blood red and wet! 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 427 

The swift invader had retraced 

His march, and left his fallen braves, 

Covered at night in voiceless haste, 

To sleep in memorable graves, 

But knew that all his loss was waste. 

The nation's legions, stretching wide, 
Too sore to chase, too weak to cheer, 
Gave sepulture to those who died, 
And saw their foemen disappear 
Without the loss of power or pride. 

And then, swift- sweeping like a gale. 
Through all the land, from end to end, 
Grief poured its wild, untempered wail, 
And father, mother, wife, and friend 
Forgot their country in their bale. 

And Philip, with his fatal wound, 
Was borne beyond the battle's blaze, 
Across the torn and quaking ground, 
His ear too dull to heed the praise. 
That spoke him hero, robed and crowned. 

They bent above his blackened face, 

And questioned of his last desire ; 

And with his old, familiar grace. 

And smiling mouth, and eye of fire, 

He answered them : " My wife's embrace!" 

They wiped his forehead of its stain, . 

They bore him tenderly away, 

Through teeming mart and wide champaign, 

Till on a twilight, cool and gray. 

And wet with weeping of the rain. 



428 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

They gave him to a silent crowd 

That waited at the river's marge, 

Of men with age and sorrow bowed, 

Who raised and bore their precious charge, 

Through groups that watched and wailed aloud. 



XXVI. 

The hounds of power were at her gate ; 
And at their heels, a yelping pack 
Of graceless mongrels stood in wait, 
To mark the issue of attack. 
With lips that slavered with their hate. 

With window raised and portal barred, 
The mistress scanned the darkening space, 
And with a visage hot and hard — 
At bay before the cruel chase — 
She held them in her fierce regard. 

"What would ye — spies and hirelings — what?" 
She asked with accent, stern and brave ; 
" Why come ye to this sacred spot, 
Led by the counsel of a knave. 
And flanked by slanderer and sot? 

" You have my husband : has he earned 
No meed of courtesy for me ? 
Is this the recompense returned. 
That she he loved the best should be 
Suspected, persecuted, spurned ? 

"My home is wrecked : what would ye more? 
My life is ruined — what new boon? 
My children's hearts are sad and sore 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 429 

With weeping for the wounds that soon 
Will plead for healing at my door! 

" I hold your prisoner— stand assured: 
Safe from his foes : aye, safe from you ! — 
Safe in a sister's love immured, 
And by a warden kept as true 
As e'er the test of faith endured. 

" Why, men, he was my brother born ! 
My hero, all my youthful years ! 
My counsellor, to guide and warn ! 
My shield alike from foes and fears ! 
And when he came to me, forlorn, 

*^What could I do but hail him guest, 
And bind his cruel wounds with balm, 
And give him on his sister's breast 
That which he asked, the humble aim 
Of a safe pillow where to rest ? 

'^ Come, then, and dare the wrath of fate ! 

Come, if you must, or if you will ! 

But know that I am desperate ; 

And shafts that wound, and wounds that kill 

Your deed of dastardy await ! " 

A murmur swept through all the mob; 

The base informer slunk afar ; 

And lusty cheer and stifled sob 

Rose to her at the window-bar. 

While those whose hands were come to rob 

Her dwelling of its treasure, cursed ; 
For round their heads the menace flew 



430 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

That he who dared adventure first, 
Or first an arm of murder drew, 
Should taste of vengeance at its worst. 



XXVII. 

A heavy tramp, a murmuring sound, 
Low mingUng with the murmuring rain,— 
Heard in the wind and in the ground, — 
Came up the street — a tide of pain, 
In which the angry din was drowned. 

The leaders of the tumult fled ; 
The door flew open with a crash ; 
And down the street wild Mildred sped, 
Piercing the darkness like a flash, 
And walked beside her husband's bed. 

Slowly the solemn train advanced ; 
The crowd fell back with parted ranks ; 
And like a giant, half entranced. 
Sailing between strange, spectral banks, 
From side to side the soldier glanced. 

The sobbing rain, the evening dim. 
The dusky forms that pushed and peered, 
The swaying couch, the aching limb. 
The lights and shadows, sharp and weird, 
Were but a troubled dream to him. 

He knew his love — all else unknown. 
Or seen through reason's sad eclipse — 
And with her hand within his own, 
Or fondly pressed upon his lips. 
He clung to it, as if alone 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 43 1 

It had the power to stay his feet 

Yet longer on the verge of hfe ; 

And thus they vanished from the street — 

The shepherd-warrior and his wife — 

Within the manse's closed retreat. 



XXVIII. 

Embraced by home, his soul grew light ; 

And though he moaned : ''My head! my head!" 

His life turned back its outward flight, 

Like his, who, from the prophet's bed, 

Startled the wondering Shunammite. 

He greeted all with tender speech ; 
He told his children he should die ; 
He gave his fond farewell to each, 
With messages, and fond good-by 
To all he loved beyond his reach. 

And then he spoke her brother's name : 
" Tell him," he said, " that, in my death, 
I cherished his untarnished fame, 
And, to my life's expiring breath, 
Held his brave spirit free from blame. 

" We strove alike for truth's behoof. 
With honest faith and love sincere, — 
For God and country, right and roof, 
And issues that do not appear. 
But wait with Heaven the awful proof" 

A tottering figure reached the door ; 

The brother fell upon the bed, 

And, in each other's arms once more. 



432 THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 

With breast to breast, and head to head, — 
Twin barks, they drifted from the shore ; 

And backward on the sobbing air - 
Came the same words from warring hps : 
" God save my country!" and the prayer 
Still wailing from the drifting ships, 
Returned in measures of despair ; 

Till far, at the horizon's verge 
They passed beyond the tearful eyes 
That could not know if in the surge 
They sank at last, or in the skies 
Forgot the burden of their dirge ! 



XXIX. 

In Northern blue and Southern brown, 
Twin coffins and a single grave. 
They laid the weary warriors down; 
And hands that strove to slay and save 
Had equal rest and like renown. 

For in the graveyard's hallowed close 
A woman's love made neutral soil. 
Where it might lay the forms of those 
Who, resting from their fateful broil, 
Had ceased forever to be foes. 

To her and those who clung to her — 
From manly eldest down to least — 
The obsequies, the sepulchre. 
The chanting choir, the weeping priest, 
And all the throng and all the stir 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 433 

Of sympathetic country-folk, 
And all the signs of death and dole, 
Were but a dream that beat and broke 
In chilling waves on heart and soul, 
Till in the silence they awoke. 

She was a widow, and she wept ; 
She was a mother, and she smiled ; 
Her faith with those she loved was kept, 
Though still the war-cry, fierce and wild, 
Around the harried country swept. 

No more with this had she to do ; 
God and her little ones were left ; . 
And unto these, serene and true, 
She gave the life so soon bereft 
Of its first gifts, and rose anew 

At duty's call to make amends 
For all her loss of loves and lands ; 
And found, to speed her noble ends. 
The succor of uplifting hands, 
And solace of a thousand friends. 

And o'er her precious graves she built 
A stone whereon the yellow boss 
Of sword on sword with naked hilt 
Lay as the symbol of her cross. 
In mournful meaning, carved and gilt. 

And underneath were graved the lines: — 
" They did the duty that they saw ; 
Both wrought at God's supreme designs 
And, under love's eternal law. 
Each life with equal beauty shines," 
19 



434 THE MISTRESS OF IHE MANSE. 



XXX. 

Peace, with its large and lilied calms, 
Like moonlight sleeps on land and lake, 
With healing in its dewy balms, 
For pride that pines and hearts that ache, 
From Huron to the land of palms! 

From rock-bound Massachusetts Bay- 
To California's Golden Gate ; 
From where Itasca's waters play. 
To those which plunge or palpitate 
A thousand happy leagues away. 

And drink, among her dunes and bars, 
The Mississippi's boiUng tide. 
Still floating from a million spars, 
The nation's ensign, undefied, 
Blazons its galaxy of stars. 

No more to party strife the slave, 
And freed from Hate's infernal spells. 
Love pays her tribute to the brave, 
And snows her holy immortelles 
O'er friend and foe, where'er his grave. 

On every Decoration Day . 

Each pilgrim to her hallowed grounds 

Brings tribute of a flower or spray ; 

And white-haired Mildred finds her mounds 

Decked with the garnered bloom of May. 



THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. 435 

And Philip's first-born, strong and sage, 
(Through Heaven's design or happy chance) 
Finds the old church his heritage ; 
And still, The Mistress of the Manse, 
Sits Mildred, in her silver age I 



The Heart of the War 



THE HEART OF THE WAR. 

(1864.) 

Peace in the clover-scented air, 

And stars within the dome ; 
And underneath, in dim repose, 

A plain, New England home. 
Within, a murmur of low tones 

And sighs from hearts oppressed, 
Merging in prayer, at last, that brings 

The balm of silent rest. 



I've closed a hard day's work, Marty,- 

The evening chores are done ; 
And you are weary with the house, 

And with the little one. 
But he is sleeping sweetly now, 

With all our pretty brood ; 
So come and sit upon my knee, 

And it will do me good. 

Oh, Marty! I must tell you all 

The trouble in my heart, 
And you must do the best you can 

To take and bear your part. 



440 THE HEART OF THE WAR. 

You've seen the shadow on my face ; 

You've felt it day and night ; 
For it has filled our little home, 

And banished all its light. 

I did not mean it should be so, 

And yet I might have known 
That hearts which live as close as ours 

Can never keep their own. 
But we are fallen on evil times, 

And, do whate'er I may, 
My heart grows sad about the war, 

And sadder every day. 

I think about it when I work. 

And when I try to rest. 
And never more than when your head 

Is pillowed on my breast ; 
For then I see the camp-fires blaze. 

And sleeping men around, 
Who turn their faces toward their homes, 

And dream upon the ground. 

I think about the dear, brave boys. 

My mates in other years, 
Who pine for home and those they love. 

Till I am choked with tears. 
With shouts and cheers they marched away 

On glory's shining track, 
But, Ah ! how long, how long they stay I 

How few of them come back ! 

One sleeps beside the Tennessee, 

And one beside the James, 
And one fought on a gallant ship 

And perished in its flames. 



THE HEART OF THE WAR. 441 

And some, struck down by fell disease, 

Are breathing out their life ; 
And others, maimed by cruel wounds, 

Have left the deadly strife. 

Ah, Marty! Marty, only think 

Of all the boys have done 
And suffered in this weary war ! 

Brave heroes, every one ! 
Oh ! often, often in the night, 

I hear their voices call : 
" Come on and help us! Is it right 

That we should bear it all? " 

And when I kneel and try to pray, 

My thoughts are never free. 
But cling to those who toil and fight 

And die for you and me. 
And when I pray for victory, 

It seems almost a sin 
To fold my hands and ask for what 

I will not help to win. 

Oh ! do not cling to me and cry, 

For it will break my heart ; 
I'm sure you'd rather have me die 

Than not to bear my part. 
You think that some should stay at home 

To care for those away ; 
But still I'm helpless to decide 

If I should go or stay. 

For, Marty, all the soldiers love. 

And all are loved again ; 
And I am loved, and love, perhaps. 

No more than other men. 
19* 



442 THE HEART OF THE WAR. 

I cannot tell — I do not know — 

Which way my duty lies, 
Or where the Lord would have me build 

My fire of sacrifice. 

I feel — I know — I am not mean ; 

And, though I seem to boast, 
I'm sure that I would give my life 

To those who need it most. 
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal 

That which is fair and right ; 
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel 

And pray to Heaven for light. 



Peace in the clover-scented air, 

And stars within the dome ; 
And underneath, in dim repose, 

A plain. New England home. 
Within, a widow in her weeds, 

From whom all joy is flown, 
Who kneels among her sleeping babes, 

And weeps and prays alone 1 



The Marble Prophecy. 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

The harlequins are out in force to-day — 

The piebald Swiss — and in the vestibule 

Of great St. Peter's rings the rhythmic tread 

Of Roman nobles, uniformed and armed 

As the Pope's Guard ; and while their double line 

With faultless curve enters the open door, 

And sways and sparkles up the splendid nave, 

Between the walls of humbler soldiery, 

And parts to pass the altar — keeping step 

To the proud beating of their Roman hearts — 

A breeze of whispered admiration sweeps 

The crowds that gaze, and dies within the dome. 

St. Peter's toe (the stump of it) was cold 
An hour ago, but waxes warm apace 
With rub of handkerchiefs, and dainty touch 
Of lips and foreheads. 

Smug behind their screen 
Sit the Pope's Choir. No woman enters there ; 
For woman is impure, and makes impure 
By voice and presence ! Mary, Mother of God ! 
Not thy own sex may sing thee in the courts 
Of The All-Holy ! — Only man, "pure man ! 
Doubt not the purity of some of these — 
Angels before their time — nor doubt 



44^ THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

That they will sing like angels, when Papa, 
Borne on the shoulders of his stalwart men 
(The Master rode an ass), and canopied 
By golden tapestries — the triple crown 
Upon his brow, the nodding peacock plumes 
Far heralding his way — shall come to take 
His incense and his homage. 

I will go. 
'Tis a brave pageant, to be seen just once. 
'Tis a brave pageant, but one does not like 
To smutch his trousers kneeling to a man. 
Or bide the stare that follows if he fail : 
So, having seen it once, one needs not wait. 

What is the feast ? Let's see : ah ! I recall : 

St. Peter's chair was brought from Antioch 

So many years ago ; — the worse for wear 

No doubt, and never quite luxurious, 

But valued as a piece of furniture 

By Rome above all price ; and so they give 

High honor to the anniversary. 

'Tis well ; in Rome they make account of chairs. 

If less in heaven, it possibly may be 

Because they're greatly occupied by joy 

Over bad men made penitent and pure 

By this same chair ! Who knows ? 

I'll to the door! 
The sun seems kind and simple in the sky 
After such pomp. I thank thee. Sun ! Thou hast 
A smile like God, that reaches to the heart 
Direct and sweet, without the ministries 
Of scene and ceremonial ! Thy rays 
Fall not in benediction at the ends 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 44/ 

Of two pale fingers ; but thy warmth and Hght 

Wrap well the cold dark world. I need no prism 

To teach my soul that thou art beautiful : 

It would divide thee, and confuse my sight. 

Shine freely, sun ! No mighty mother church 

Stands mediator between thee and me ! 

Ay, shine on these — all these in shivering need — 

To whom God's precious love is doled or sold 

By sacerdotal hucksters ! Shine on these, 

And teach them that the God of Life and Light 

Dwells not alone in temples made by hands ; 

And that the path to Him, from every soul, 

In every farthest corner of the earth, 

Is as direct as are thy rays to thee ! 

Ha ! Pardon ! Have I hurt you ? Welladay ! 

I was not looking for a beggar here : — 

Indeed, was looking upward ! But I see 

You're here by royal license — with a badge 

Made of good brass. Come nearer to me ! there : 

Take double alms, and give me chance to read 

The number on your breast. So : "Seventy-seven!" 

'Tis a good number, man, and quite at home 

About the temple. Well, you have hard fare, 

But many brothers and no end of shows ! 

Think it not ill that they will spend to-day, 

Touching this chair, enough of time and gold 

To gorge the poor of Rome. The men who hold 

The church in charge — who are, indeed, the church — 

Have little time to give to starving men. 

Be thankful for your label ! Only one 

Can be the beggar " Number seventy-seven ! " 

They are distinguished persons : so are you ! 

You must be patient, though it seems, I grant, 

A trifle odd that when a miracle 

Is wrought before you, it will never take 



44^8 THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

A useful turn, as in the olden time, 

And give you loaves and fishes, or increase 

Your little dinners ! 

Still the expectant crowds 
Press up the street from round St. Angelo, 
And thread the circling colonnade, or cross 
With hurried steps the broad piazza — crowds 
That pass the portal, and at once are lost 
Within the vaulted glooms, as morning mist 
Is quenched by morning air. 

It is God's house — 
The noblest temple ever reared to Him 
By hands of men — the culminating deed 
Of a great church — the topmost reach of art 
For the enshrinement of the Christian faith 
In sign and symbol. Holiness becomes 
The temple of the Holy ! 

And these crowds ? 
Come they to pour the worship of their hearts 
Like wine upon the altar ? Who are they ? 
Last night, we hear, the theatre was full. 
It was a spectacle : they went to see. 
All yesterday they thronged the galleries, 
Or roved among the ruins, or drove out 
Upon the broad campagna — just to see. 
This afternoon, with gaudy equipage, 
(Their Bsedeker and Murray left at home), 
They'll be upon the Pincio — to see. 
And so this morning, learning of the chair 
And the Pope's coming, they are here to see 
(The men in swallow-tails, their wives in black), 
The grandest spectacle of all the week. 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 449 

Make way ye men of poverty and dirt 
Who fringe the outer lines ! Make open-way 
And let them pass! This is the House of God, 
And swallow-tails are of fine moment here ! 

The ceremony has begun within. 

I hear the far, faint voices of the choir, 

As if a door in heaven were left ajar, 

And cherubim were singing . . . Now I hear 

The sharp, metallic chink of grounded arms 

Upon the marble, as His Holiness 

Moves up the lines of bristling bayonets 

That guard his progress . . . But I stay alone. 

Nay, I will to the Vatican, and there, 

In converse with the thoughts of manlier men, 

Pass the great morning ! I shall be alone — 

Ay, all alone with thee, Laocoon ! 

"A feast day and no entrance?" Can one's gold 

Unloose a soul from purgatorial bonds 

And ope the gates of heaven, without the power 

To draw a bolt at the Museum ? Wait ! 

Laocoon ! thou great embodiment 

Of human life and human history ! 

Thou record of the past, thou prophecy 

Of the sad future, thou majestic voice. 

Pealing along the ages from old time ! 

Thou wail of agonized humanity ! 

There lives no thought in marble like to thee ! 

Thou hast no kindred in the Vatican, 

But standest separate among the dreams 

Of old mythologies — alone — alone ! 

The beautiful Apollo at thy side 

Is but a marble dream, and dreams are all 

The gods and goddesses and fauns and fates 



450 THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

That populate these wondrous halls ; but thou, 

Standing among them, liftest up thyself 

In majesty of meaning, till they sink 

Far from the sight, no more significant 

Than the poor toys of children. For thou art 

A voice from out the world's experience, 

Speaking of all the generations past 

To all the generations yet to come 

Of the long struggle, the sublime despair, 

The wild and weary agony of man ! 

Ay, Adam and his offspring, in the toils 

Of the twin serpents Sin and Suffering, 

Thou dost impersonate ; and as I gaze 

Upon the twining monsters that enfold 

In unrelaxing, unrelenting coils, 

Thy awful energies, and plant their fangs 

Deep in thy quivering flesh, while still thy might 

In fierce convulsion foils the fateful wrench 

That would destroy thee, I am overwhelmed 

With a strange sympathy of kindred pain. 

And see through gathering tears the tragedy. 

The curse and conflict of a ruined race ! 

Those Rhodian sculptors were gigantic men, 

Whose inspirations came from other source 

Than their religion, though they chose to speak 

Through its familiar language, — men who saw, 

And, seeing quite divinely, felt how weak 

To cure the world's great woe were all the powers 

Whose reign their age acknowledged. So they sat — ■ 

The immortal three — and pondered long and well 

What one great work should speak the truth for them,- 

What one great work should rise and testify 

That they had found the topmost fact of life. 

Above the reach of all philosophies 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 45 I 

And all religions — every scheme of man 

To placate or dethrone. That fact they found, 

And moulded into form. The silly priest 

Whose desecrations of the altar stirred 

The vengeance of his God, and summoned forth 

The wreathed gorgons of the slimy deep 

To crush him and his children, was the word 

By which they spoke to their own age and race, 

That listened and applauded, knowing not 

That high above the small significance 

They apprehended, rose the grand intent 

That mourned their doom and breathed a world's despair ! 

Be sure it was no fable that inspired 

So grand an utterance. Perchance some leaf 

From an old Hebrew record had conveyed 

A knowledge of the genesis of man. 

Perchance some fine conception rose in them 

Of unity of nature and of race. 

Springing from one beginning. Nay, perchance 

Some vision flashed before their thoughtful eyes 

Inspired by God, which showed the mighty man, 

Who, unbegotten, had begot a race 

That to his lot was linked through countless time 

By living chains, from which in vain it strove 

To wrest its tortured limbs and leap amain 

To freedom and to rest ! It matters not : 

The double word — the fable and the fact. 

The childish figment and the mighty truth, 

Are blent in one. The first was for a day 

And dying Rome ; the last for later time 

And all mankind. 

These sculptors spoke their word 
And then they died ; and Rome — imperial Rome — 



452 THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

The mistress of the world — debauched by blood 

And foul with harlotries — fell prone at length 

Among the trophies of her crimes and slept. 

Down toppling one by one her helpless gods 

Fell to the earth, and hid their shattered forms 

Within the dust that bore them, and among 

The ruined shrines and crumbling masonry 

Of their old temples. Still this wondrous group. 

From its long home upon the Esquiline, 

Beheld the centuries of change, and stood, 

Impersonating in its conscious stone 

The unavailing struggle to crowd back 

The closing folds of doom. It paused to hear 

A strange New Name proclaimed among the streets, 

And catch the dying shrieks of martyred men, 

And see the light of hope and heroism 

Kindling in many eyes ; and then it fell ; 

And in the ashes of an empire swathed 

Its aching sense, and hid its tortured forms. 

The old life went, the new life came ; and Rome 
That slew the prophets built their sepulchres, 
And filled her heathen temples with the shrines 
Of Christian saints whom she had tossed to beasts, 
Or crucified, or left to die in chains 
Within her dungeons. Ay, the old life went 
But came again. The primitive, true age — 
The simple, earnest age — when Jesus Christ 
The Crucified was only known and preached, 
Struck hands with paganism and passed away. 
Rome built new temples and installed new names ; 
Set up her graven images, and gave 
To Pope and priests the keeping of her gods. 
Again she grasped at power no longer hers 
By right of Roman prowess, and stretched out 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 453 

Her hand upon the consciences of men. 

The godlike liberty with which the Christ 

Had made his people free she stole from them, 

And bound them slaves to new observances. 

Her times, her days, her ceremonials 

Imposed a burden grievous to be borne. 

And millions groaned beneath it. Nay, she grew 

The vengeful persecutor of the free 

Who would not bear her yoke, and bathed her hands 

In blood as sweet as ever burst from hearts 

Torn from the bosoms of the early saints 

Within her Coliseum. She assumed 

To be the arbiter of destiny. 



Those whom she bound or loosed upon the earth, 

Were bound or loosed in heaven I In God's own place, 

She sat as God — supreme, infallible ! 

She shut the door of knowledge to mankind. 

And bound the Word Divine. She sucked the juice 

Of all prosperities within her realms. 

Until her gaudy temples blazed with gold, 

And from a thousand altars flashed the fire 

Of priceless gems. To win her countless wealth 

She sold as merchandise the gift of God. 

She took the burden which the cross had borne, 

And bound it fast to scourged and writhing loins 

In thriftless Penance, till her devotees 

Fled from their kind to find the boon of peace, 

And died in banishment. Beneath her sway, 

The proud old Roman blood grew thin and mean 

Till virtue was the name it gave to fear, 

Till heroism and brigandage were one. 

And neither slaves nor beggars knew their shame t 



454 THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

What marvel that a shadow fell, world-wide, 
And brooded o'er the ages ? Was it strange 
That in those dim and drowsy centuries. 
When the dumb earth had ceased to quake beneath 
The sounding wheels of progress, and the life 
That erst had flamed so high had sunk so low 
In cold monastic glooms and forms as cold. 
The buried gods should listen in their sleep 
And dream of resurrection? Was it strange 
That listening well they should at length awake, 
And struggle from their pillows ? Was it strange 
That men whose vision grovelled should perceive 
The dust in motion, and with rapture greet 
Each ancient deity with loud acclaim, 
As if he brought with him the good old days 
Of manly art and poetry and power ? 
Nay, was it strange that as they raised themselves, 
And cleansed their drowsy eyelids of the dust, 
And took their godlike attitudes again, 
The grand old forms should feel themselves at home- 
Saving perhaps a painful sense that men 
Had dwindled somewhat ? Was it strange, at last, 
That all these gods should be installed anew, 
And share the palace with His Holiness, 
And that the Pope and Christian Rome can show 
No art that equals that which had its birth 
In pagan inspiration ? Ah, what shame ! 
That after two millenniums of Christ, 
Rome calls to her the thirsty tribes of earth. 
And smites the heathen marble with her rod. 
And bids them drink the best she has to give ! 

And when the gods were on their feet again 
It was thy time to rise, Laocoon ! 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 455 

Those Rhodian sculptors had foreseen it all. 
Their word was true : thou hadst the right to live. 

In the quick sunlight on the Esquiline, 

Where thou didst sleep, De Fredis kept his vines ; 

And long above thee grew the grapes whose blood 

Ran wild in Christian arteries,- and fed 

The fire of Christian revels. Ah what fruit 

Sucked up the marrow of thy marble there ! 

What fierce, mad dreams were those that scared the 

souls 
Of men who drank, nor guessed what ichor stung 
Their crimson lips, and tingled in their veins ! 
Strange growths were those that sprang above thy sleep: 
Vines that were serpents ; huge and ugly trunks 
That took the forms of human agony — 
Contorted, gnarled and grim — and leaves that bore 
The semblance of a thousand tortured hands, 
And snaky tendrils that entwined themselves 
Around all forms of life within their reach, 
And crushed or blighted them ! 

At last the spade 
Slid down to find the secret of the vines. 
And touched thee with a thrill that startled Rome, 
And swiftly called a shouting multitude 
To witness thy unveiling. 

Ah what joy 
Greeted the rising from thy long repose ! 
And one, the mighty master of his time, 
The king of Christian art, with strong, sad face 
Looked on, and wondered with the giddy crowd, — 
Looked on and learned (too late, alas ! for him), 
That his humanity and God's own truth 



456 THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 

Were more than Christian Rome, and spoke in words 
Of larger import. Humbled Angelo 
Bowed to the masters of the early days, 
Grasped their strong hands across the centuries, 
And went his way despairing ! 

Thou, meantime, 
Didst find thyself installed among the gods 
Here in the Vatican ; and thou, to-day. 
Hast the same word for those who read thee well 
As when thou wast created. Rome has failed ; 
Humanity is writhing in the toils 
Of the old monsters as it writhed of old, 
And there is neither help nor hope in her. 
Her priests, her shrines, her rites, her mummeries, 
Her pictures and her pageants, are as weak 
To break the hold of Sin and Suffering 
As those her reign displaced. Her iron hand 
Shrivels the manhood it presumes to bless, 
Drives to disgust or infidelity 

The strong and free who dare to think and judge, 
And wins a kiss from coward lips alone. 
She does not preach the Gospel to the poor, 
But takes it from their hands. The men who tread 
The footsteps of the Master, and bow down 
Alone to Him, she brands as heretics 
Or hunts as fiends. She drives beyond her gates 
The Christian worshippers of other climes. 
And other folds and faiths, as if their brows 
Were white with leprosy, and grants them there 
With haughty scorn the privilege to kneel 
In humble worship of the common Lord ! 

Is this the Christ, or look we still for Him? 
Is the old problem solved, or lingers yet 



THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 457 

The grand solution ? Ay Laocoon ! 

Thy word is true, for Christian Rome has failed, 

And I behold humanity in thee 

As those who shaped thee saw it, when old Rome 

In that far pagan evening fell asleep. 

20 



SHORTER POEMS. 4^3 

And then the sleeper woke, and gazed around him ; 
Then springing to his feet with Ufe renewed, 
He spurned the faithless weakness that had bound him, 
And, faring on, his pilgrimage pursued. 

The way was hard, and he grew halt and weary, 
But one long day, among the evening hours, 
He saw beyond a landscape gray and dreary 
The sunset flame on Salem's sacred towers ! 

O, fainting soul that readest well this story. 
Longing through pain for death's benignant balm, 
Think not to win a heaven of rest and glory 
If thou shalt reach its gates without thy palm ! 



TO WHITTIER ON HIS SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 

Ten gentle -hearted boys of seven. 
Too young and sweet to stray from heaven, 
Will — counting up the little men — 
Amount to three score years and ten. 

Two gracious men of thirty-five, 
With wits alight and hearts alive. 
Will fill complete the rounded spheres 
Of seventy strong and manly years. 

Nay, Whittier, thou art not old ; 
Thy register a lie hath told. 
For lives devote to love and truth 
Do only multiply their youth. 



404 SHORTER POEMS. 

Thou art ten gentle boys of seven, 

With souls too sweet to stray from heaven ; 

Thou art two men of thirty-five, 

With wits alight, and hearts alive! 



A GLIMPSE OF YOUTH. 

Maiden, I thank thee for thy face, 
Thy sweet, shy glance of conscious eyes ; 
For, from thy beauty and thy grace. 
My life has won a glad surprise. 

I met thee on the crowded street — 
A load of care on heart and brain — 
And, for a moment, bright and fleet, 
The vision made me young again. 

And then I thought, as on I went. 

And struggled through the thronging ways, 

How every age's complement 

The age that follows overlays. 

The youth upon the child shuts down ; 

Young manhood closes over youth ; 

And ripe old age is but the crown 

That keeps them both in changeless truth 1 

So, every little child I see, 
With brow and spirit undefiled, 
And simple faith and frolic glee, 
Finds still in me another child. 



THE PALMER'S VISION. 



Noon o'er Judea ! All the air was beating 
With the hot pulses of the day's great heart ; 
The birds were silent, and the rill retreating 
Shrank in its covert, and complained apart, 

When a lone pilgrim, with his scrip and burdon^ 
Dropped by the wayside, weary and distressed. 
His sinking heart grown faithless of its guerdon — 
The city of his recompense and rest. 

No vision yet of Galilee and Tabor ! 
No glimpse of distant Zion throned and crowned ! 
Behind him stretched his long and useless labor, 
Before him lay the parched and stony ground. 

He leaned against a shrine of Mary, casting 
Its balm of shadow on his aching head. 
And worn with toil, and faint with cruel fasting. 
He sighed: "O God! O God, that I were dead! 

" The friends I loved are lost or left behind me ; 
In penury and loneliness I roam ; 

These endless paths of penance choke and blind me ; 
Oh come and take thy wasted pilgrim home ! " 



462 SHORTER POEMS. 

Then with the form of Mary bending o'er him, 
Her hands in changeless benediction stayed, 
The palmer slept, while a swift dream upbore him 
To the fair paradise for which he prayed. 

He stood alone, wrapped in divinest wonder ; 
He saw the pearly gates and jasper walls 
Informed with light, and heard the far-off thunder 
Of chariot wheels and mighty waterfalls ! 

From far and near, in rhythmic palpitations, 
Rose on the air the noise of shouts and psalms ; 
And through the gates he saw the ransomed nations, 
Marching and waving their triumphant palms. 

And white within the thronging Empyrean, 
A golden palm-branch in his kingly hand, 
He saw his Lord, the gracious Galilean, 
Amid the worship of his myriads stand ! 

" O Jesus! Lord of glory! Bid me enter! 

I worship thee ! I kiss thy holy rood ! " 

The pilgrim cried, when from the burning center 

A broad-winged angel sought him where he stood. 

" Why art thou here ? " in accents deep and tender 
Outspoke the messenger. " Dost thou not know 
That none may win the city's rest and splendor, 
Who do not cut their palms in Jericho ? 

" Go back to earth, thou palmer empty-handed ! 
Go back to hunger and the toilsome way ! 
Complete the task that duty hath commanded. 
And win the palm thou hast not brought to-day ! ** 



SHORTER POEMS. 



SHORTER POEMS. 4^0 j 

■I 
This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit j 

Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 1 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit I 

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 

'i 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, | 

In the great company of the forgiven \ 

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 



MERLE THE COUNSELLOR. 

Old Merle, the counsellor and guide, 
And tall young Rolfe walked side by side 
At the sweet hour of eventide. 

The yellow light of parting day 
Upon the peaceful landscape lay. 
And touched the mountain far away. 

The tinkling of the distant herds, 
And the low twitter of the birds 
Mingled with childhood's happy words. 

The old man raised his trembling palm, 
And bared his brow to meet the balm 
That fell with twilight's dewy calm ; 

And one could see that to his thought, 
The scenes and sounds around him brought 
Suggestions of the heaven he sought. 



4-70 SHORTER POEMS. 

But Rolfe, his young companion, bent 
His moody brow in discontent, 
And sadly murmured as he went. 

For vagrant passions, fierce and grim, 
And fearful memories haunted him, 
That made the evening glory dim. 

Then spoke the cheerful voice of Merle : 
" Where yonder clouds their gold unfurl, 
One almost sees the gates of pearl. 

" Nay, one can hardly look amiss 
For heaven, in such a scene as this. 
Or fail to feel its present bliss. 

" So near we stand to holy things, 

And all our high imaginings. 

That faith forgets to lift her wings ! " 

Then answered Rolfe, with bitter tone : 
" If thou hast visions of the throne, 
Enjoy them ; they are all thy own. 

" For me there lives no God of love ; 
For me there bends no heaven above ; 
And Peace, the gently brooding dove, 

" Has flown afar, and in her stead 
Fierce vultures wheel above my head, 
And hope is sick and faith is dead. 

" Death can but loose a loathsome bond, 
And from the depths of my despond, 
I see no ray of light beyond." 



SHORTER POEMS. 4^7 



DANIEL GRAY. 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven 

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well ; in truth, few knew him better ; 
For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, 
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter 
He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his freight of gratitude, 
Nor was he called upon among the gifted. 
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes ; 
And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, 
I've heard them all at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his motions, 
His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 
And hear the language of his trite devotions, 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
" Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint ! " 
And how the " conquering-and-to conquer" rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 



468 SHORTER POEMS. 

He had some notions that did not improve him, 
He never kissed his children — so they say ; 
And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horse -shoe picked up in the way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 
And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 
Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked so closely in his honest mind ! 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress. 
And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him ; 
And I am told that when his Charley died, 
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him 
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charlie, 
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair, 
And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, 
And guessed, but did not know who placed it there. 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling. 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 
Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling. 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer, 
He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way 
His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, 
Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 



SHORTER POEMS. 4^5 

Toward every brave and careless boy 
Whose lusty shout or call I hear, 
The boy within me springs with joy 
And rings an echo to his cheer! 

What was it, when thy face I saw, 
That moved my spirit like a breeze, 
Responsive to the primal law 
Of youth's entrancing harmonies ? 

Ah ! little maid — so sweet and shy — 
Building each day thy fair romance — 
Thou didst not dream a youth passed by. 
When I returned thee glance for glance ! 

For all my youth is still my own, — 
Bound in the volume of my age, — 
And breath from thee hath only blown 
The leaves back to the golden page ! 



A GOLDEN WEDDING-SONG 



The links of fifty golden years 

Reach to the golden ring 
Which now, with glad and grateful tears, 

We celebrate and sing. 
O chain of love ! O ring of gold ! 

That have the years defied ; 
And still in happy bondage hold 

The old man and his bride ! 
20* 



466 SHORTER POEMS. 

The locks are white that once were black; 

The sight is feebler grown ; 
But through the long and weary track 

The heart has held its own ! 
O chain of love ! O ring of gold ! 

That time could not divide ; 
That kept through changes manifold 

The old man with his bride ! 

The little ones have come and gone ; 

The old have passed away ; 
But love — immortal love — lives on, 

And blossoms 'mid decay. 
O chain of love ! O ring of gold ! 

That have the years defied ; 
And still with growing strength infold 

The old man and his bride ! 

The golden bridal ! ah, how sweet 

The music of its bell. 
To those whose hearts the vows repeat 

Their lives have kept so well ! 
O chain of love ! O ring of gold ! 

O marriage true and tried ! 
That bind with tenderness untold 

The old man to his bride I 



SHORTER POEMS. 4/1 

It was a sad, discordant strain, 

That brought old Merle to earth again, 

And filled his soul with solemn pain. 

At length they reached a leafy wood, 
And walked in silence, till they stood 
Within the fragrant solitude. 

Then spake old Merle with gentle art : 
'' I know the secret of thy heart, 
And will, if thou desire, impart." 

Rolfe answered with a hopeless sigh, 
But from the tear that brimmed his eye. 
The old man gladly caught reply. 

And spoke : " Beyond these forest trees 
A city stands ; and sparkling seas 
Waft up to it the evening breeze, 

*' Thou canst not see its gilded domes, 
Its plume of smoke, its pleasant homes, 
Or catch the gleam of surf that foams 

''And dies upon its verdant shore, 
But there it stands ; and there the roar 
Of life shall swell for evermore ! 

*' The path we walk is fair and wide. 
But still our vision is denied 
The city and its nursing tide. 

" The path we walk is wide and fair. 
But curves and wanders here and there, 
And builds the wall of our despair. 



472 SHORTER POEMS. 

" Make straight the path, and then shall shine 
Through trembling walls of tree and vine 
The vision fair for which we pine. 

'* And thou, my son, so long hast been 

Along the crooked ways of sin. 

That they have closed, and shut thee in. 

** Make straight the path before thy feet. 
And walk within it firm and fleet, 
And thou shalt see, in vision sweet 

*' And constant as the love supreme, 
With closer gaze and brighter beam, 
The peaceful heaven that fills my dream." 

He paused : no more his lips could say ; 
And then, beneath the twilight gray, 
The silent pair retraced their way. 

But in the young man's eyes a light 

Shone strong and resolute and bright. 

For which Merle thanked his God that night. 



WANTED. V 

God give us men! A time like this demands 

Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready hands ; 

Men whom the lust of office does not kill ; 

Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy ; 
Men who possess opinions and a will ; 

Men who have honor, — men who will not lie ; 



SHORTER POEMS. 473 

Men who can stand before a demagogue, 

And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking ! 
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog 

In public duty, and in private thinking : 
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, 
Their large professions and their little deeds, — 
Mingle in selfish strife, lo ! Freedom weeps. 
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps ! 



VERSES READ AT THE HADLEY CEN- 1 

TENNIAL. I 

(June 9, 1859.} ; 

I 
j 

Heart of Hadley, slowly beating 

Under midnight's azure breast, \ 

Silence thy strong pulse repeating i 

Wakes me — shakes me — from my rest.* ] 

Hark ! a beggar at the basement ! " j 

Listen ! friends are at the door ! ] 

There's a lover at the casement ! \ 

There are feet upon the floor! 

i 

But they knock with muffled hammers, ^ 

They step softly like the rain, j 
And repeat their gentle clamors 

Till I sleep and dream again. <\ 



♦The pulsations of Hadley Falls, on the Connecticut, are felt for many miles' 
around, in favorable conditions of the atmosphere. 



474 SHORTER POEMS. 

Still the knocking at the basement ; 

Still the rapping at the door; 
Tireless lover at the casement ; 

Ceaseless feet upon the floor. 

Bolts are loosed by spectral fingers, 
Windows open through the gloom. 

And the lilacs and syringas 

Breathe their perfume through the room. 

'Mid the odorous pulsations 

Of the air around my bed, 
Throng the ghostly generations 

Of the long forgotten dead. 

" Rise and write ! " with gentle pleading 
They command, and I obey ; 

And I give to you the reading 
Of their tender words to-day : 

" Children of the old plantation, 
Heirs of all we won and held, 

Greet us in your celebration — 
Us — the nameless ones of Eld ! 

" We were never squires or teachers. 
We were neither wise nor great, 

But we listened to our preachers, 

Worshipped God and loved the State. 

** Blood of ours is on the meadow, 

Dust of ours is in the soil. 
But no marble casts a shadow 

Where we slumber from our toil. 



SHORTER POEMS. 475 

*' Unremembered, unrecorded, 

We are sleeping side by side, 
And to names is now awarded 

That for which the nameless died. 

" We were men of humble station ; 

We were women pure and true ; 
And we served our generation, — 

Lived and worked and fought for you. 

" We were maidens, we were lovers, 

We were husbands, we were wives ; 
But oblivion's mantle covers 

All the sweetness of our lives." 

*' Praise the men who ruled and led us ; 

Carry garlands to their graves ; 
But remember that your meadows 

Were not planted by their slaves. 

*' Children of the old plantation. 

Heirs of all we won and held. 
Greet us in your celebration, — 

Us, the nameless ones of Eld." 

This their message, and I send it, 

Faithful to their sweet behest. 
And my toast shall e'en attend it. 

To be read among the rest. 

Fill to all the brave and blameless 

Who, forgotten, passed away! 
Drink the memory of the nameless,-— 

Only named in heaven to-day ! 



475 SHORTER POEMS. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

There's a song in the air! 

There's a star in the sky! 

There's a mother's deep prayer 

And a baby's low cry I 
And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 

There's a tumult of joy 

O'er the wonderful birth, 

For the virgin's sweet boy 

Is the Lord of the earth, 
Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing; 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king! 

In the light of that star 

Lie the ages impearled ; 

And that song from afar 

Has swept over the world. 
Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing 
In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King. 

We rejoice in the light. 

And we echo the song 

That comes down through the night 

From the heavenly throng. 
Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring. 
And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King! 



SHORTER POEMS. 477 



THE OLD CLOCK OF PRAGUE. 

There's a curious clock in the city of Prague — 

A remarkable old astronomical clock — 
With a dial whose outline is that of an egg, 

And with figures and fingers a wonderful stock. 

It announces the dawn and the death of the day, 
Shows the phases of moons and the changes of tides, 

Counts the months and the years as they vanish away, 
And performs quite a number of marvels besides. 

At the left of the dial a skeleton stands ; 

And aloft hangs a musical bell in the tower. 
Which he rings, by a rope that he holds in his hands, 

In his punctual function of striking the hour. 

And the skeleton nods, as he tugs at the rope. 
At an odd little figure that eyes him aghast. 

As a hint that the bell rings the knell of his hope. 
And the hour that is solemnly tolled is his last. 

And the effigy turns its queer features away 
{Much as if for a snickering fit or a sneeze), 

With a shrug and a shudder, that struggle to say : 

** Pray excuse me, but — just an hour more, if you 
please ! " 

But the funniest sight, of the numerous sights 

Which the clock has to show to the people below, 

Is the Holy Apostles in tunics and tights. 
Who revolve in a ring, or proceed in a row. 



478 SHORTER POEMS. 

Their appearance can hardly be counted sublime ; 

And their movements are formal, it must be allowed ; 
But they're prompt, for they always appear upon time, 

And polite, for they bow very low to the crowd. 

This machine (so reliable papers record) 

Was the work, from his own very clever design 

Of one Hanusch, who died in the year of our Lord 
One thousand four hundred and ninety and nine. 

Did the people receive it with honor ? you ask ; 

Did it bring a reward to the builder ? Ah, well ! 
It was proper that they should have paid for the task ! 

And they did, in a way that it shocks me to tell. 

For suspecting that Hanusch might grow to be vain, 
Or that cities around them might covet their prize. 

They invented a story that he was insane. 
And, to stop him from labor, extinguished his eyes ! 

But the cunning old artist, though dying in shame. 
May be sure that he labored and lived not amiss ; 

For his clock has outlasted the foes of his fame. 
And the world owes him much for a lesson like this : 

That a private success is a public offence. 
That a citizen's fame is a city's disgrace. 

And that both should be shunned by a person of sense, 
Who would live with a whole pair of eyes in his face. 



SHORTER POEMS. 479 



ALBERT DURER'S STUDIO. 



In the house of Albert Durer 

Still is seen the studio 
Where the pretty Nurembergers 

(Cheeks of rose and necks of snow) 
Sat to have their portraits painted, 

Thrice a hundred years ago. 

Still is seen the little loop-hole 
Where Frau Durer's jealous care 

Watched the artist at his labor, 
And the sitter in her chair, 

To observe each word and motion 
That should pass between the pair. 

Handsome, hapless Albert Durer 
Was as circumspect and true 

As the most correct of husbands, 
When the dear delightful shrew 

Has him, and his sweet companions, 
Every moment under view. 

But I trow that Albert Durer 
Had within his heart a spot 

Where he sat, and painted pictures 
That gave beauty to his lot, 

And the sharp, intrusive vision 
Of Frau Durer entered not. 



480 SHORTER POEMS. 

Ah ! if brains and hearts had loop-holes, 
And Frau Durer could have seen 

All the pictures that his fancy 
Hung upon their walls within, 

How minute had been her watching, 
And how good he would have been !. 



ALONE 1 

All alone in the world ! all alone ! 
With a child on my knee, or a wife on my breast, 
Or, sitting beside me, the beautiful guest 
Whom my heart leaps to greet as its sweetest and best, 

Still alone in the world ! all alone ! 

With my visions of beauty, alone ! 
Too fair to be painted, too fleet to be scanned, 
Too regal to stay at my feeble command, 
They pass from the grasp of my impotent hand : 

Still alone in the world ! all alone ! 

Alone with my conscience, alone ! 
Not an eye that can see when its finger of flame 
Points my soul to its sin, or consumes it with shame ! 
Not an ear that can hear its low whisper of blame ! 

Still alone in the world ! all alone ! 

In my visions of self, all alone S 
The weakness, the meanness, the guilt that I see. 
The fool or the fiend I am tempted to be, 
Can only be seen and repented by me : 

Still alf ne in the world ! all alone ! 



SHORTER POEMS. 48 1 

Alone in my worship, alone ! 
No hand in the universe, joining with mine, 
Can lift what it lays on the altar divine, 
Or bear what it offers aloft to its shrine: 

Still alone in the world ! all alone I 

In the valley of death, all alone ! 
The sighs and the tears of my friends are in vain, 
For mine is the passage, and mine is the pain. 
And mine the sad sinking of bosom and brain : 

Still alone in the world ! all alone ! 

Not alone ! never, never alone ! 
There is one who is with me by day and by night, 
Who sees and inspires all my visions of light, 
And teaches my conscience its office aright : 

Not alone in the world ! not alone ! 

Not alone ! never, never alone ! 
He sees all my weakness with pitying eyes, 
He helps me to lift my faint heart to the skies, 
And in my last passion he suffers and dies : 

Not alone ! never, never alone ! 



SONG AND SILENCE. 

" My Mabel, you once had a bird 
In your throat ; and it sang all the day ! 
But now it sings never a word : 
Has the bird flown away? 
21 



482 SHORTER POEMS. 

" Oh sing to me, Mabel, again ! 
Strike the chords ! Let the old fountain flow 
With its balm for my fever and pain, 
As it did years ago I " 

Mabel sighed (while a tear filled and fell,) 
" I have bade all my singing adieu ; 
But I've a true story to tell, 
And I'll tell it to you. 

" There's a bird's nest up there in the oak. 
On the bough that hangs over the stream, 
And last night the mother-bird broke 
Into song in her dream. 

" This morning she woke, and was still ; 
For she thought of the frail little things 
That needed her motherly bill, 
Waiting under her wings. 

"And busily, all the day long. 
She hunted and carried their food. 
And forgot both herself and her song 
In her care for her brood. 

** I sang in my dream, and you heard ; 
I woke, and you wonder I'm still ; 
But a mother is always a bird 
With a fly in its bill ! " 



SHORTER POEMS. 483 



WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE j 

BE? ' I 

i 
j 
Over the cradle the mother hung, 

Softly crooning a slumber-song ; 

And these were the simple words she sung j 

All the evening long : j 

" Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, ; 

Where shall the baby's dimple be ? j 

Where shall the angel's finger rest 1 
When he comes down to the baby's nest? 
Where shall the angel's touch remain 
When he awakens my babe again ? " 

Still as she bent and sang so low, j 

A murmur into her music broke ; j 

And she paused to hear, for she could but know \ 

The baby's angel spoke. \ 

I 

" Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 1 

Where shall the baby's dimple be ? I 

Where shall my finger fall and rest 1 

When I come down to the baby's nest ? ! 

Where shall my finger's touch remain \ 

When I awaken your babe again ? " ' ] 

Silent the mother sat, and dwelt | 

Long in the sweet delay of choice ; ] 

And then by her baby's side she knelt, 1 

And sang with pleasant voice : j 



484 SHORTER POEMS. 

" Not on the limb, O angel dear ! 

For the charm with its youth will disappear j 

Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, 

For the harboring smile will fade and flee • 

But touch thou the chin with an impress deep, 

And my baby the angel's seal shall keep." 



TO A SLEEPING SINGER. 

Love in her heart, and song upon her lip — 

A daughter, friend, and wife — 

She lived a beauteous life. 

And love and song shall bless her in her sleep. 

The flowers whose language she interpreted, 

The delicate airs, calm eves, and starry skies 

That touched so sweetly her chaste sympathies. 

And all the grieving souls she comforted. 

Will bathe in separate sorrows the dear mound, 

Where heart and harp lie silent and profound. 

Oh, Woman ! all thf songs thou left to us 

We will preserve for thee, in grateful love ; 

Give thou return of our affection thus. 

And keep for us the songs thou sing'st above J 



SHORTER POEMS. 485 ! 



EUREKA. 

Whom I crown with love is royal ; 

Matters not her blood or birth ; 
She is queen, and I am loyal 

To the noblest of the earth. 

Neither place, nor wealth, nor title, 
Lacks the man my friendship owns ; 

His distinction, true and vital. 
Shines supreme o'er crowns and thrones. 

Where true love bestows its sweetness, 
Where true friendship lays its hand. 

Dwells all greatness, all completeness, 
All the wealth of every land. 

Man is greater than condition. 
And where man himself bestows, 

He begets, and gives position 
To the gentlest that he knows. 

Neither miracle nor fable 

Is the water changed to wine ; 

Lords and ladies at my table 

Prove Love's simplest fare divine. 

And if these accept my duty, 

If the loved my homage own, 
I have won all worth and beauty ; 

I have found the magic stone. 



486 SHORTER POEMS. 



RETURNING CLOUDS. 

The clouds are returning after the rain. 

All the long morning they steadily sweep 
From the blue Northwest, o'er the upper main, 

In a peaceful flight to their Eastern sleep. 

With sails that the cool wind fills or furls, 
And shadows that darken the billowy grass, 

Freighted with amber, or piled with pearls, 
Fleets of fair argosies rise and pass. 

The earth smiles back to the smiling throng 
From greening pasture and blooming field, 

For the earth that had sickened with thirst so long - 
Has been touched by the hand of The Rain, and healed 

The old man sits 'neath the tall elm trees, 
And watches the pageant with dreamy eyes. 

While his white locks stir to the same cool breeze 
That scatters the silver along the skies. 

The old man's eyelids are wet with tears — 
Tears of sweet pleasure and sweeter pain — 

For his thoughts are driving back over the years 
In beautiful clouds after life's long rain. 

Sorrows that drowned all the springs of his life. 
Trials that crushed him with pitiless beat. 

Storms of temptation and tempests of strife, 
Float o'er his memory tranquil and sweet. 



SHORTER POEMS. 48/ 

And the old man's spirit, made soft and bright 
By the long, long rain that had bent him low, 

Sees a vision of angels on wings of white, 
In the trooping clouds as they come and go. 



GRADATIM. 



Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true : 
That a noble deed is a step toward God, — 
Lifting the soul from the common clod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things that are under feet ; 

By what we have mastered of good and gain ; 

By the pride deposed and the passion slain, 
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 
When the morning calls us to life and light, 
But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, 

Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray. 
And we think that we mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 



488 SHORTER POEMS. 

Wings for the angels, but feet for men ? 

We may borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray ; 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 
But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, 

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 

And we mount to its summit, round by round. 



ON THE RIGHI. 

On the Righi Kulm we stood, 

Lovely Floribel and I, 
While the morning's crimson flood 

Streamed along the eastern sky. 
Reddened every mountain peak 

Into rose, from twilight dun ; 
But the blush upon her cheek 

Was not lighted by the sun! 

On the Righi Kulm we sat, 

Lovely Floribel and I, 
Plucking blue-bells for her hat 

From a mound that blossomed nigh. 
*' We are near to heaven," she sighed. 

While her raven lashes fell. 
** Nearer," softly I replied, 

" Than the mountain's height may tell." 



SHORTER POEMS. 4^9 

Down the Righi's side we sped, 

Lovely Floribel and I, 
But her morning blush had fled, 

And the blue-bells all were dry. 
Of the height the dream was born ; 

Of the lower air it died ; 
And the passion of the morn 

Flagged and fell at eventide. 

From the breast of blue Lucerne, 

Lovely Floribel and I 
Saw the brand of sunset burn 

On the Righi Kulm, and die. 
And we wondered, gazing thus. 

If our dream would still remain 
On the height, and wait for us 

Till we climb to heaven again! 



THE WINGS. 

A FEEBLE wail was heard at night, 

And a stifled cry of joy ; 
And when the morn broke cool and light, 
They bore to the mother's tearful sight 

A fair and lovely boy. 

Months passed away ; 
And day by day 

The mother hung about her child 
As in his little cot he lay, 

And watched him as he smiled, 

21* 



490 SHORTER POEMS. 

And threw his hands into the air, 
And turned above his large, bright eyes, 

With an expression half of prayer 

And half of strange surprise ; 

For hovering o'er his downy head 

A dainty vision hung. 
Fluttering, swaying, 

Unsteadily it swung, 

As if suspended by a thread, 
His own sweet breath obeying. 



Sometimes with look of wild beseeching 
He marked it as it dropped 

Almost within his awkward reaching, 

And as the vision stopped 
Beyond his anxious grasp. 
And cheated the quick clasp 

Of dimpled hands, and quite 

Smothered his chirrup of delight. 



And he saw his effort vain 
And the bright vision there again 
Dancing before his sight. 

His eyes grew dim with tears, 
Till o'er the flooded spheres 
The soothing eyelids crept, 
And the tired infant slept. 
He saw — his mother could not see — 
A presence and a mystery : 

Two waving wings. 
Spangled with silver, starlike things : 

No form of light was borne between ; 
Only the wings were seen ! 



SHORTER POEMS. 49I 

Years steal away with silent feet, 

And he, the little one, 
With brow more fair and voice more sweet 

Is playing in the sun. 
Flowers are around him and the songs 

Of bounding streams and happy birds, 
But sweeter than their sweetest tongues 
Break forth his own glad words. 
And as he sings 
The wings, the wings ! 
Before him still they fly ! 
And nothing that the summer brings 
Can so entice his eye. 
Hovering here, hovering there, 
Hovering everywhere, 
They flash and shine among the flowers. 
While dripping sheen in golden showers 
Falls through the air where'er they hover 
Upon the radiant things they cover. 
Hurrying here, hurrying there. 
Hurrying everywhere, 
He plucks the flowers they shine upon. 
But while he plucks their light is gone ! 
And casting down the faded things. 
Onward he springs 
To follow the wings ! 

Years run away with silent feet ; 

The boy, to manhood grown, 
Within a shadowy retreat 

Stands anxious and alone. 
His bosom heaves with heavy sighs, 

His hair hangs damp and long, 
But fiery purpose fills his eyes. 

And his limbs are large and strong : 



492 SHORTER POEMS. 

And there above a gentle hill, 

The wings are hovering still, 

While their soft radiance, rich and warm, 

Falls on a maiden's form. 

And see ! again he starts, 

And onward darts, 
Then pauses with a fierce and sudden pain, 

Then presses on again, 
Till with mixed thoughts of rapture and despair, 
He kneels before her there : — ' 

With hands together prest, 
He prays to her with low and passionate calls. 
And, like a snow-flake pure, she flutters, falls, 

And melts upon his breast. 

Long in that dearest trance he hung — 
Then raised his eyes ; the wings that swung 
In glancing circles round his head 

Afar had fled, 
And wheeled, with calm and graceful flight, 

Over a scene 
That glowed with glories beauteously bright 

Beneath their sheen. 

High in the midst a monument arose. 
Of pale enduring marble ; calm and stilU 

It seemed a statue of sublime repose. 
The silent speaker of a mighty will. 

Its sides were hung around 
With boughs of evergreen ; and its long shaft was crowned 

With a bright laurel-wreath, 

And glittering beneath 
Were piled great heaps of gold upon the ground. 



SHORTER POEMS. 493 

Children were playing near — fair boys and girls, 

Who shook their sunny curls, 
And laughed and sang in mirthfulness of spirit, 

And in their childish pleasures 
Danced around the treasures 
Of gold and honor they were to inherit. 

The sight has fired his brain ; 
Onward he springs again. 

O'er ruined blocks 
Of wild and perilous rocks. 
Through long damp caves, o'er pitfalls dire, 
And maddening scenes of blood and fire, 
Fainting with heat. 
Benumbed with cold. 
With weary, aching feet, 
He sternly toils, and presses on to greet 
The monument, the laurels and the gold. 
Years have passed by ; a shattered form 
Leans faintly on a monument ; 
His glazing eyes are bent 
In sadness down : a tear falls to the ground 
That through the furrows of his cheek hath wound. 
The children beautiful have ceased to play, 
Tarnished the marble stands with dark decay. 
The laurels all are dead, and flown the gold away. 

Once more he raised his eyes ; before him lay 

A dim and lonely vale. 
And feebly tottering in the downward way 
Walked spectres cold and pale. 
And darkling groves of shadowy cypress sprung 
Among the damp clouds that around them hung. 
One vision only cheers his aching sight ; 
Those wings of light 
Have lost their varied hues, and changed to white, 



494 SHORTER POEMS. 

And, with a gentle motion, slowly wave 
Over a new made grave. 
He casts one faltering, farewell look behind, 
Around, above, one mournful glance he throws, 
Then with a cheerful smile, and trusting mind. 
Moves feebly toward the valley of repose. 
He stands above the grave ; dull shudders creep 
Along his limbs, cold drops are on his brow ; 
One sigh he heaves, and sinking into sleep 
He drops and disappears ; — and dropping now. 

The wings have followed too. 
But, lo ! new visions burst upon the view ! 

They reappear in glory bright and new ! 

And to their sweet embrace a soul is given, 
And on the wings of Hope an angel flies to Heaven. 



INTIMATIONS. 

What glory then ! What darkness now ! 

A glimpse, a thrill, and it is flown ! 

I reach, I grasp, but stand alone. 
With empty arms and upward brow ! 

Ye may not see, O weary eyes ! 

The band of angels, swift and bright. 
That pass, but cannot wake your sight, 

Down trooping from the crowded skies 

O heavy ears ! Ye may not hear 

The strains that pass my conscious soul, 
And seek, but find no earthly goal, 

Far falling from another sphere. 



SHORTER POEMS. 495 

Ah ! soul of mine ! Ah ! soul of mine ! 
Thy sluggish senses are but bars 
That stand between thee and the stars, 

And shut thee from the world divine. 

For something sweeter far than sound, 
And something finer than the light 
Comes through the discord and the night 

And penetrates, or wraps thee round. 

Nay, God is here, couldst thou but see ; 

All things of beauty are of Him ; 

And heaven, that holds the cherubim, 
As lovingly embraces thee ! 

If thou hast apprehended well 
The tender glory of a flower, 
Which moved thee, by some subtle power 

Whose source and sway thou couldst not tell ; 

If thou hast kindled to the sweep 
Of stormy clouds across the sky, 
Or gazed with tranced and tearful eye, 

And swelling breast, upon the deep ; 

If thou hast felt the throb and thrill 

Of early day and happy birds, 

While peace, that drowned thy chosen words 
Has flowed from thee in glad good-will, 

Then hast thou drunk the heavenly dew ; 

Then have thy feet in rapture trod 

The pathway of a thought of God ; 
And death can show thee nothing new. 



496 SHORTER POEMS. 

P'or heaven and beauty are the same, — 
Of God the all-informing thought, 
To sweet, supreme expression wrought, 

And syllabled by sound and flame. 

The light that beams from childhood's eyes, 
The charm that dwells in summer woods. 
The holy influence that broods 

O'er all things under twilight skies, — 

The music of the simple notes 

That rise from happy human homes, 
The joy in life of all that roams 

Upon the earth, and all that floats, 

Proclaim that heaven's sweet providence 
Enwraps the homely earth in whole. 
And finds the secret of the soul 

Through channels subtler than the sense. 

O soul of mine ! Throw wide thy door. 

And cleanse thy paths from doubt and sin | 
And the bright flood shall enter in 

And give thee heaven for evermore ! 



WORDS. 

The robin repeats his two musical words, 
The meadow-lark whistles his one refrain ; 
And steadily, over and over again, 

The same song swells from a hundred birds. 



SHORTER POEMS. 49/ 

Bobolink, chickadee, blackbird and jay, 

Thrasher and Avoodpecker, cuckoo and wren, 
Each sings its word, or its phrase, and then 

It has nothing further to sing or to say. 

Into that word, or that sweet little phrase, 
All there may be of its life must crowd ; 
And lulling and liquid, or hoarse and loud, 

It breathes out its burden of joy and praise. 

A little child sits in his father's door. 

Chatting and singing with careless tongue ; 
A thousand beautiful words are sung. 

And he holds unuttered a thousand more. 

Words measure power ; and they measure thine 5 
Greater art thou in thy prattling moods 
Than all the singers of all the woods ; 

They are brutes only, but thou art divine. 

Words measure destiny. Power to declare 

Infinite ranges of passion and thought 

Holds with the infinite only its lot, — 
Is of eternity only the heir. 

Words measure life, and they measure its joy ! 
Thou hast more joy in thy childish years 
Than the birds of a hundred tuneful spheres, 

So — sing with the beautiful birds, my boy ! 



498 SHORTER POEMS. 



SLEEPING AND DREAMING. 

I SOFTLY sink into the bath of sleep : 

With eyeUds shut, I see around me close 

The mottled, violet vapors of the deep, 
That wraps me in repose. 

I float all night in the ethereal sea 

That drowns my pain and weariness in balm, 
Careless of where its currents carry me, 

Or settle into calm. 

That which the ear can hear is silent all ; 

But, in the lower stillness which I reach, 
Soft whispers call me, like the distant fall 

Of waves upon the beach. 

Now like the mother who with patient care 

Has soothed to rest her faint, o'erwearied boy, 

My spirit leaves the couch, and seeks the air 
For freedom and for joy. 

Drunk up like vapors by the morning sun 
The past and future rise and disappear ; 

And times and spaces gather home, and run 
Into a common sphere. 

My youth is round me, and the silent tomb 
Has burst to set its fairest prisoner free, 

And I await her in the dewy gloom 
Of the old trysting tree. 



SHORTER POEMS. 49^ 

I mark the flutter of her snowy dress, 

I hear the tripping of her fairy feet, 
And now, pressed closely in a pure caress, 

With ardent joy we meet. 

I tell again the story of my love, 

I drink again her lip's delicious wine, 
And, while the same old stars look down above, 

Her eyes look up to mine. 

I dream that I am dreaming, and I start ; 

Then dream that nought so real comes in dreams ; 
Then kiss again to reassure my heart 

That she is what she seems. 

Our steps tend homeward. Lingering at the gate, 
I breathe, and breathe again, my fond good-night. 

She shuts the cruel door, and still I wait 
To watch her window-light. 

I see the shadow of her dainty head, 

On curtains that I pray her hand may stir, 

Till all is dark ; and then I seek my bed 
To dream I dream of her. 

Like the swift moon that slides from cloud to cloud. 
With only hurried space to smile between, 

\ pierce the phantoms that around me crowd, 
And glide from scene to scene. 

I clasp warm hands that long have lain in dust, 
I hear sweet voices that have long been still, 

And earth and sea give up their hallowed trust 
In answer to my will. 



coo SHORTER POEMS. 

And now, high-gazing toward the starry dome, 
I see three airy forms come floating down — 

The long-lost angels of my early home — 
My night of joy to crown. 

They pause above, beyond my eager reach. 

With arms enwreathed and forms of heavenly grace ; 

And smiling back the love that smiles from each, 
I see them, face to face. 

They breathe no language, but their holy eyes 
Beam an embodied blessing on my heart, 

That warm within my trustful bosom lies, 
And never will depart. 

I drink the effluence, till through all my soul 

I feel a flood of peaceful rapture flow. 
That swells to joy at last, and bursts control. 

And I awake ; but lo ! 

With eyelids shut, I hold the vision fast, 
And still detain it by my ardent prayer, 

Till faint and fainter grown, it fades at last 
Into the silent air. 

My God ! I thank Thee for the bath of sleep, 
That wraps in balm my weary heart and brain, 

And drowns within its waters still and deep 
My sorrow and my pain. 

I thank Thee for my dreams, which loose the bond 

That binds my spirit to its daily load. 
And give it angel wings, to fly beyond 

Its slumber-bound abode. 



SHORTER POEMS. S^' 

I thank Thee for these gUmpses of the clime 
That Ues beyond the boundaries of sense, 

Where I shall wash away the stains of time 
In floods of recompense : — 

Where, when this body sleeps to wake no more, 

My soul shall rise to everlasting dreams, 
And find unreal all it saw before 

And real all that seems. 



OLD AND BLIND. 

Gallant Gray-beard, can't you see 
You unconscionable bat, you — 

While you play the devotee, 

That the girl is laughing at you? 

You were handsome in your day. 
You are well preserved and thrifty. 

And your manners, one may say, 
Are superb, but — you are fifty ! 

Don't be foolish, now you're old, 
Flirting in this feeble fashion. 

Trying on a hearth grown cold 
To re -light a boyish passion. 

You have had your day of youth, 
With its tender freaks and fancies ; 

You have known a woman's truth, 

And have lived Love's sweet romances. 



502 SHORTER POEMS. 

Ay, I know her lips are red ; 

True, her curls are black and glossy j 
Yes, she bears a dainty head, 

And her eyes are sweet and saucy. 

But she knows you act a part, 

While you try to tease and please her,- 

Knows, Old Make-Believe, your heart 
Is as dead as Julius Caesar ; — 

Knows it, though a simple girl, 

And is laughing while you linger; — 

Knows it well, and, like a curl, 
Winds you round her jeweled finger I 

But if you must act a part ; 

If you cannot drop your feigning, 
Feign you have not in your heart 

Such a thing as love remaining. 

Come and stand with me, my friend, — 
She'll permit you — never doubt her! 

Do as I do, and pretend 
Not to care a fig about her! 



SHORTER POEMS. S^3 



HER ARGUMENT. 

" Donald's dead," she murmured, smiling, as she met me 
at the door. 
" Come and see the little fellow ere we carry him 
away ! " 
Then she turned with queenly gesture, and walked firmly 
on before. 
To the chamber where the coffin and its lovely burden 
lay. 

She was not of earth that morning ; she was up among 
the spheres — 
Cloud and darkness underneath, and round her paradisal 
air — 
For her eyes had seen a vision that forbade their falling 
tears, 
And her heart had framed an argument that banished 
her despair. 

Smiling lips and waxen forehead, folded hands and pulse- 
less breast, 
There he lay — the household treasure — to be hidden ere 
the night ! 
And the mother stood above him with her hands together 
pressed 
In a rapture of thanksgiving — in a transport of de- 
light ! 



504 SHORTER POEMS. 

Then she spoke : " An angel met him at the parting of 
his breath, 
For he reached his hands up swiftly, and he answered 
with a smile ! 
Ah my Donald, darling Donald ! Thou art conqueror of 
death ! 
Evil cannot now disturb thee, nor the touch of sin 
defile. 

*' Do not stray too far, my Donald ! Linger for me on 
the hills! 
Oh, there's time enough for straying ! Wait and see it 
all with me ! 
I shall go to thee when graciously the Heavenly Father 
wills. 
And I know that I shall know thee, whensoever it may 
be ! » 

I had come to bring her comfort, but I stood in dumb 
amaze. 
For her peace was like a river and her joy too full for 
speech. 
I had come to lead her sobbing through the dim and 
doubtful ways 
That philosophy discloses and the hackneyed schoolmen 
teach. 

She had learned a better logic ; she was mistress of the 
hour ; 
And I stood before her, humbled, knowing that my 
scheme was vain. 
'*Tell me, woman," said I, trembling — '' tell me, if thou 
hast the power. 
How thou knowest that this little boy of thine shall live 
again ? " 



SHORTER POEMS. 505 

" Sweetest thing in earth and heaven " — made she answer 
to my quest — 
" Life of Godhead, breath of angels, every good and 
gift above, 
Was bestowed upon my Donald — lived and throbbed with- 
in his breast — 
God had given him love for largess, and had given him 
power to love ! 

" If He had not loved my Donald, would He, think you, 
have bestowed 
What was best in all His kingdom— what was royal and 
divine — 
On the little earthly nature, till I knew it the abode 
Of the presence of The Master, and revered it as a 
shrine ? 

"God is bountiful, but gives not gifts like this to stocks 
and stones ! 
His are all the living creatures on a thousand happy 
hills ; 
But He only gives them pleasure, and a place to hide 
their bones 
When decay descends upon them, or the cruel hand 
that kills. 

** Would He fit a soul to love Him, and give nothing in 
return ? 
Would He care a soul should love Him if He did not 
love it well ? 
Love must find a love that answers, or with hopeless pas- 
sion learn ; 
And God loves us, or our love is but the mockery of 
hell. 



506 SHORTER POEMS. 

*' This is certain as the sunlight, this is true as life is 
true: 
And no soul can frame conception of a being so 
inane, 
That, with power to save, He wills not to recover and re- 
new 
Every object of His tenderness that falls in mortal 
pain ! 

'' Oh I know it : God loved Donald ; and He will not let 
him die. 
Even I had saved him living if my love had had the 
might. 
Did the God of earth and heaven love my darling less 
than I ? 
Having loved him will He damn him to the everlasting 
night ? 

" That is not the way of loving. Every instinct of love's 
power 
Moves to shield its precious object from destruction and 
decay ; 
And I know that God loved Donald, and that Donald has 
for dower 
Immortality of being, in the everlasting day ! " 



SHORTER POEMS. 507 



A LEGEND OF LEAP YEAR. 

•• No poet should invent his own romance." — Stedman. 

" One, two, 

Buckle my shoe.''^ 
Two little shoes with silver buckles dight, 
Lay in the room where she had passed the night. 
She raised them in her fingers, pink and white, 
And put them on her feet, and strapped them tight. 

** Three, four, 

open the door." 
Then slowly rising from her cushioned chair, 
She gave a last deft crinkle to her hair, 
And oped the door and hurried down the stair — 
Her petticoats soft rustling through the air ! 

" Five, six, 

Pick up sticks." 
Straight to the yard she skipped on queenly toes, 
To where in serried ranks the wood-pile rose, 
Then piled her arm with hickory to her nose, 
And bore it to the house through air that froze. 

" Seven, eight. 

Lay ^em straight.^'' 
At length the wood was blazing on the fire, 
Though still unequal to her fierce desire ; 
And so she punched and punched the cheerful pyre, 
And heaped with sticks the household altar higher. 



508 SHORTER POEMS. 

" Nine, ten, 

Good fat hen." 
And then the eager hunger-fiend was foiled, 
And she was glad, indeed, that she had toiled ; 
For when her hands were washed, so sadly soiled, 
She sat down to a last year's chicken — broiled I 

" Eleven, twelve. 

Toil and delve." 
Then to her waist her pink of pinafores 
She fastened, and did up her little chores, 
Made soap, made bread, baked beans, and swept her floors, 
And worried through a hundred household bores. 

" Thirteen, fourteen, 

Girls are courtin\" 
Next morn before her door the grocer's van 
Drove up. 'Twas leap-year, and she laid her plan. 
So when he asked for orders, she began 
To blush, and said she'd take a market-man ! 

" Fifteen, sixteen. 

Girls are fixin\" 
She overhauled her linen- chest with pride, 
Bought hose, bought gloves, bought sheetings two yards 

wide. 
Bought blankets and a hundred things beside 
That woman buys when she becomes a bride. 

" Seventeen, eighteen. 

Girls are 'waitin\" 
And then she waited — -waited day by day. 
Till weeks had flown, and months had passed away, 
But still her order lingered in delay. 
Although she longed to have it filled — and pay. 



SHORTER POEMS. $09 

" Nineteen, twenty, 

Girls are plenty. ^^ 
At length she knew. Embarras de richesses 
Had thrown the fellow into wild distress, 
And he had gone to drinking to excess, 
Crushed by the weight of offered loveliness. 

She called and saw him, selling by the pound 
Within his stall. "Fact is," said he, "I found 
That gals this year so wonderful abound, 
No single market-man won't go around/^* 



FALSE AND TRUE. 

The false is fairer than the true. Behold 

Yon cloudy giant on the hills supine ! — 

The figure of a falsehood that doth shine, 

Armored and helmeted, in such a gold 

As in the marts was never bought or sold, — 

Giant and armor the exalted sign 

Of shapes less glorious and tints less fine — 

Of forms of truth outmatched a thousand fold I 

Ah, Poesie ! Thou charmer and thou cheat ! 

Painting for eyes that fill with happy tears, 

In tints delusive, pictures that repeat 

Dull, earthly forms in heavenly atmospheres ! 

How dost thou shame the truth, till it appears 

Less lovely far than thy divine deceit ! ■ 



CIO SHORTER POEMS. 



THRENODY. 

Oh, sweet are the scents and songs of spring. 

And brave are the summer flowers ; 
And chill are the autumn winds, that bring 

The winter's lingering hours. 
And the world goes round and round, 

And the sun sinks into the sea ; 
And whether I'm on or under the ground. 

The world cares little for me. 

The hawk sails over the sunny hill ; 

The brook trolls on in the shade ; 
But the friends I have lost lie cold and still 

Where their stricken forms were laid. 
And the world goes round and round, 

And the sun slides into the sea ; 
And whether I'm on or under the ground, 

The world cares little for me. 

O life, why art thou so bright and boon ! 

O breath, why art thou so sweet ! 
O friends, how can ye forget so soon 

The loved ones who lie at your feet ! 
But the world goes round and round. 

And the sun drops into the sea, 
And whether Fm on or under the ground, 

The world cares little for me. 



SHORTER POEMS. S^^ 

The ways of men are busy and bright ; 

The eye of woman is kind : 
It is sweet for the eyes to behold the light, 

But the dying and dead are blind. 
And the world goes round and round, 

And the sun falls into the sea, 
And whether Vm on or under the ground, 

The world cares little for me. 

But if life awake, and will never cease 

On the future's distant shore. 
And the rose of love and the lily of peace 

Shall bloom there for evermore, 
Let the world go round and round, 

And the sun sink into the sea ! 
For whether I'm on or under the ground. 

Oh, what will it matter to me? 



TO MY DOG ** BLANCO." 

My dear, dumb friend, low lying there, 
A willing vassal at my feet, 
Glad partner of my home and fare, 
My shadow in the street, 

I look into your great brown eyes. 
Where love and loyal homage shine. 
And wonder where the difference lies 
Between your soul and mine! 



512 SHORTER POEMS. 

For all of good that I have found 
Within myself or human kind, 
Hath royally informed and crowned 
Your gentle heart and mind. 



I scan the whole broad earth around 
For that one heart which, leal and true,, 
Bears friendship without end or bound, 
And find the prize in you. 



I trust you as I trust the stars ; 
Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride. 
Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars. 
Can move you from my side ! 



As patient under injury 
As any Christian saint of old, 
As gentle as a lamb with me, 
But with your brothers bold ; 



More playful than a frolic boy. 
More watchful than a sentinel. 
By day and night your constant joy 
To guard and please me well, 



I clasp your head upon my breast — 
The while you whine and lick my hand- 
And thus pur friendship is confessed. 
And thus we understand ! 



SHORTER POEMS. 513 

Ah, Blanco ! did I worship God 
As truly as you worship me, 
Or follow where my Master trod 
With your humility. 

Did I sit fondly at His feet, 
As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine, 
And watch Him with a love as sweet. 
My life would grow divine ! 



TWO HOMES. 

I HASTEN homeward, through the gathering night, 

Tow'rd the dear ones who in expectance sweet 

Await the coming of my weary feet; 

With faces in the hearth-fire glowing bright, 

And please my heart with many a lovely sight 

Of way-worn neighbors, stepping from the street 

Through doors thrown wide, and bursts of light that greet 

Their entrance, painting all their paths with white ; 

And then I think, with a great thrill of bliss. 

That all the world, and all of life it brings, 

Tell me true tales of other realms than this, 

As faithful types of spiritual things ; 

And so I know that home's rewarding kiss 

Insures the hope of heaven that in me springs. 



H 13 89 




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